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BY WHAT AUTHORITY? 





BY 
WHAT AUTHORS Yr 


By 


Robert Hugh Benen 


Author of 


“Come Rack! Come Rope!”’, “Oddsfish!”’, 
“Loneliness?”, “Initiation,” ete. 


NEW YORK 
P. J. KENEDY & SONS 
1925 


Printep 1n U. S. A. 
P. J. Kenepy & Sons 
New YorK 


PENATIBVS - FOCISQVE - CARIS 
NECNON - TRIBVS - CARIORIBVS 
APVD - QVAS - SCRIPSI 
IN - QVARVM - AVRES - LEGI 
A - QVIBVS - ADMONITVS - EMENDAVI 
HVNC - LIBRVM 
D. 


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I wish to acknowledge a great debi of 
gratitude to the Reverend Dom Bede 
Camm., O.S.B., who kindly read this book 
in proof, and made many valuable correc- 
tions and suggestions. 


ROBERT HUGH BENSON. 


Tremans 
Horsted Keynes 
October 27, 1904 





CONTENTS 


PAR Pl 


CHAPTER PAGE 
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Vill CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 
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BEV EASTER | DAY ye INE NE LD Ca Vag g ee Nea) [test Rie’ ace a rr 
PAR Ta? 

2) THE: COMING (OFVSPATN Nib Onc clad 2a te gi ee ae 
TL): MIEN “OF (WAR AND: PEACE) 70) ON a eer 
TED HOMEs CORENG 0 2 VCC a el GT ORES ah cen ac ae 
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VTi ASDERARTURE) 108 VU OCU US 1) Sai MN Kv tg A a 


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(ek 2C Sy DBE) ALARM) cn VENOM) MRS ele tao te ola aot aa 

Xv.) THE PASSAGE TO THE’ GARDEN-HOUSE |}. oie! (2/2 
XO Tae.) GARpEN-Hovse (ie) 0. Sie pie | ee ee oils ee 
OTs) Tre NIGHT-RIDE jee hk Mee othe manaven aang an 
XIII. In Prison Bt RUB AT ARE JK Mey 
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BY WHAT AUTHORITY P 


PART I 


CHAPTER I 
THE SITUATION 


To the casual Londoner who lounged, intolerant and impatient, 
at the blacksmith’s door while a horse was shod, or a cracked 
spoke mended, Great Keynes seemed but a poor backwater of a 
place, compared with the rush of the Brighton road eight miles 
to the east from which he had turned off, or the whirling cauldron 
of London City, twenty miles to the north, towards which he 
was travelling. 

The triangular green, with its stocks and horse-pond, over- 
looked by the grey benignant church-tower, seemed a tame 
exchange for seething Cheapside and the crowded ways about 
the Temple or Whitehall; and it was strange to think that the 
solemn-faced rustics who stared respectfully at the gorgeous 
stranger were of the same human race as the quick-eyed, voluble 
townsmen who chattered and laughed and grimaced over the news 
that came up daily from the Continent or the North, and was 
tossed to and fro, embroidered and discredited alternately, all 
day long. 

And yet the great waves and movements that, rising in the 
hearts of kings and politicians, or in the sudden strokes of Divine 
Providence, swept over Europe and England, eventually always 
rippled up into this placid country village; and the lives of 
Master Musgrave, who had retired upon his earnings, and of old 
Martin, who cobbled the ploughmen’s shoes, were definitely 
affected and changed by the plans of far-away Scottish gentle- 
men, and the hopes and fears of the inhabitants of South Europe. 
Through all the earlier part of Elizabeth’s reign, the menace of 
the Spanish Empire brooded low on the southern horizon, and a 

I 


2 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


responsive mutter of storm sounded now and again from the 
north, where Mary Stuart reigned over men’s hearts, if not their 
homes; and lovers of secular England shook their heads and were 
silent as they thought of their tiny country, so rent with internal 
strife, and ringed with danger. 

For Great Keynes, however, as for most English villages and 
towns at this time, secular affairs were so deeply and intricately 
interwoven with ecclesiastical matters that none dared decide on 
the one question without considering its relation to the other; 
and ecclesiastical affairs, too, touched them more personally than 
any other, since every religious change scored a record of itself 
presently within the church that was as familiar to them as their 
own cottages. | 

On none had the religious changes fallen with more severity 
than on the Maxwell family that lived in the Hall, at the upper 
and southern end of the green. Old Sir Nicholas, though his con- 
victions had survived the tempest of unrest and trouble that had 
swept over England, and he had remained a convinced and a stub- 
born Catholic, yet his spiritual system was sore and inflamed 
within him. To his simple and obstinate soul it was an irritating 
puzzle as to how any man could pass from the old to a new faith, 
and he had been known to lay his whip across the back of a 
servant who had professed a desire to try the new religion. 

His wife, a stately lady, a few years younger than himself, did 
what she could to keep her lord quiet, and to save him from incur- 
ring by his indiscretion any further penalties beyond the enforced 
journeys before the Commission, and the fines inflicted on all who 
refused to attend their parish church. So the old man devoted 
himself to his estates and the further improvement of the house 
and gardens, and to the inculcation of sound religious principles 
into the minds of his two sons who were living at home with 
their parents; and strove to hold his tongue, and his hand, in 
public. 

The elder of these two, Mr. James as he was commonly called, 
was rather a mysterious personage to the village, and to such 
neighbours as they had. He was often in town, and when at 
home, although extremely pleasant and courteous, never talked 
about himself and seemed to be only very moderately interested 
in the estate and the country-life generally. This, coupled with 
the fact that he would presumably succeed his father, gave rise 
to a good deal of gossip, and even some suspicion. 

His younger brother Hubert was very different; passionately 


THE SITUATION 3 


attached to sport and to outdoor occupations, a fearless rider, 
and in every way a kindly, frank lad of about eighteen years old. 
The fifth member of the family, Lady Maxwell’s sister, Mistress 
Margaret Torridon, was a quiet-faced old lady, seldom seen 
abroad, and round whom, as round her eldest nephew, hung a 
certain air of mystery. 

The difficulties of this Catholic family were considerable. Sir 
Nicholas’ religious sympathies were, of course, wholly with the 
spiritual side of Spain, and all that that involved, while his intense 
love of England gave him a horror of the Southern Empire that 
the sturdiest patriot might have envied. And so with his attitude 
towards Mary Stuart and her French background. While his 
whole soul rose in loathing against the crime of Darnley’s murder, 
to which many of her enemies proclaimed her accessory, it was 
kindled at the thought that in her or her child, lately crowned 
as James VI. of Scotland, lay the hope of a future Catholic succes- 
sion; and this religious sympathy was impassioned by the memory 
of an interview a few years ago, when he had kissed that gracious 
white hand, and looked into those alluring eyes, and, kneeling, 
stammered out in broken French his loyalty and his hopes. 
Whether it was by her devilish craft as her enemies said, or her 
serene and limpid innocence as her friends said, or by a maddening 
compound of the two, as later students have said—at least she 
had made the heart and confidence of old Nicholas her own. 

But there were troubles more practical than these mental strug- 
gles; it was a misery, beyond describing, to this old man and his 
wife to see the church, where once they had worshipped and 
received the sacraments, given over to what was, in their opinion, 
a novel heresy, and the charge of a schismatic minister. There, 
in the Maxwell chapel within, lay the bones of their Catholic 
ancestors; and there they had knelt to adore and receive their 
Saviour; and now for them all was gone, and the light was gone 
out in the temple of the Lord. In the days of the previous 
Rector matters were not so desperate; it had been their custom 
to receive from his hands at the altar-rail of the Church hosts 
previously consecrated at the Rectory; for the incumbent had 
been an old Marian priest who had not scrupled so to relieve his 
Catholic sheep of the burden of recusancy, while he fed his 
Protestant charges with bread and wine from the Communion 
table. But now all that was past, and the entire family was 
compelled year by year to slip off into Hampshire shortly before 
Easter for their annual duties, and the parish church that their 


4 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


forefathers had built, endowed and decorated, knew them no 
more. 

But the present Rector, the Reverend George Dent, was far 
from a bigot; and the Papists were more fortunate than perhaps, 
in their bitterness, they recognised; for the minister was one of 
the rising Anglican school, then strange and unfamiliar, but which 
has now established itself as the main representative section of 
the Church of England. He welcomed the effect but not the rise 
of the Reformation, and rejoiced that the incrustations of error 
had been removed from the lantern of the faith. But he no less 
sincerely deplored the fanaticism of the Puritan and Genevan 
faction. He exulted to see England with a church truly her own 
at last, adapted to her character, and freed from the avarice and 
tyranny of a foreign despot who had assumed prerogatives to 
which he had no right. But he reverenced the Episcopate, he 
wore the prescribed dress, he used the thick singing-cakes for 
the Communion, and he longed for the time when nation and 
Church should again be one; when the nation should worship 
through a Church of her own shaping, and the Church share the 
glory and influence of her lusty partner and patron. 

But Mrs. Dent had little sympathy with her husband’s views; 
she had assimilated the fiery doctrines of the Genevan refugees, 
and to her mind her husband was balancing himself to the loss 
of all dignity and consistency in an untenable position between 
the Popish priesthood on the one side and the Gospel ministry 
on the other. It was an unbearable thought to her that through 
her husband’s weak disposition and principles his chief parish- 
ioners should continue to live within a stone’s throw of the 
Rectory in an assured position of honour, and in personal friend- 
liness to a minister whose ecclesiastical status and claims they 
disregarded. The Rector’s position then was difficult and trying, 
no less in his own house than elsewhere. 

The third main family in the village was that of the Norrises, 
who lived in the Dower House, that stood in its own grounds 
and gardens a few hundred yards to the northwest of the village 
green. The house had originally been part of the Hall estate; 
but it had been sold some fifty years before. The present owner, 
Mr. Henry Norris, a widower, lived there with his two children, 
Isabel and Anthony, and did his best to bring them up in his own 
religious principles. He was a devout and cultivated Puritan, 
who had been affected by the New Learning in his youth and 
had conformed joyfully to the religicus changes that took place 


THE SITUATION 5 


in Edward’s reign. He had suffered both anxiety and hardships 
in Mary’s reign, when he had travelled abroad in the Protestant 
countries, and made the acquaintance of many of the foreign 
reformers—Beza, Calvin, and even the great Melancthon himself. 
It was at this time, too, that he had lost his wife. It had been 
a great joy to him to hear of the accession of Elizabeth, and the 
re-establishment of a religion that was sincerely his own; and he 
had returned immediately to England with his two little children, 
and settled down once more at the Dower House. Here his whole 
time that he could spare from his children was divided between 
prayer and the writing of a book on the Eucharist; and as his 
children grew up he more and more retired into himself and 
silence and communing with God, and devoted himself to his book. 
It was beginning to be a great happiness to him to find that his 
daughter Isabel, now about seventeen years old, was growing up 
into active sympathy with his principles, and that the passion of 
her soul, as of his, was a tender, deep-lying faith towards God, 
which could exist independently of outward symbols and cere- 
monies. But unlike others of his school he was happy too to 
notice and encourage friendly relations between Lady Maxwell 
and his daughter, since he recognised the sincere and loving spirit 
of the old lady beneath her superstitions, and knew very well 
that her friendship would do for the girl what his own love 
could not. 

The other passion of Isabel’s life at present lay in her brother 
Anthony, who was about three years younger than herself, and 
who was just now more interested in his falcons and pony than 
in all the religious systems and human relationships in the world, 
except perhaps in his friendship for Hubert, who besides being 
three or four years older than himself, cared for the same things. 

And so relations between the Hall and the Dower House were 
all that they should be, and the path that ran through the gardens 
of the one and the yew hedge and orchard of the other was almost 
as well trodden as if all still formed one estate. 

As for the village itself, it was exceedingly difficult to gauge 
accurately the theological atmosphere. The Rector despaired 
of doing so. It was true that at Easter the entire population, 
except the Maxwells and their dependents, received communion 
in the parish church, or at least professed their willingness and 
intention to do so unless prevented by some accident of the 
preceding week; but it was impossible to be blind to the fact 
that many of the old beliefs lingered on, and that there was little 


6 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


enthusiasm for the new system. Rumours broke out now and 
again that the Catholics were rising in the north; that Elizabeth 
contemplated a Spanish or French marriage with a return to the 
old religion; that Mary Stuart would yet come to the throne; 
and with each such report there came occasionally a burst of 
joy in unsuspected quarters. Old Martin, for example, had been 
overheard, so a zealous neighbour reported, blessing Our Lady 
aloud for her mercies when a passing traveller had insisted that 
a religious league was in progress of formation between France 
and Spain, and that it was only a question of months as to when 
mass should be said again in every village church; but then on 
the following Sunday the cobbler’s voice had been louder than 
all in the metrical psalm, and on the Monday he had paid a 
morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himself on the doctrine 
of Justification, and had gone again, praising God and not Our 
Lady, for the godly advice received. 

But again, three years back, just before Mr. Dent had come 
to the place, there had been a solemn burning on the village- 
green of all such muniments of superstition as had not been 
previously hidden by the priest and Sir Nicholas; and in the 
rejoicings that accompanied this return to pure religion practically 
the whole agricultural population had joined. Some Justices had 
ridden over from East Grinsted to direct this rustic reformation, 
and had reported favourably to the new Rector on his arrival 
of the zeal of his flock. The Great Rood, they told him, with 
SS. Mary and John, four great massy angels, the statue of St. 
Christopher, the Vernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and 
a purple cope, had perished in the flames, and there had been 
no lack of hands to carry faggots; and now the Rector found it 
difficult to reconcile the zeal of his parishioners (which indeed 
he privately regretted) with the sudden and unexpected lapses 
into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin’s gratitude to Our 
Lady, and others of which he had had experience. 

As regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great 
Keynes took but little interest. It was far more a matter of 
concern whether mass or morning prayer was performed on Sun- 
day, than whether a German bridegroom could be found for 
Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke of Anjou; and 
more important than either were the infinitestimal details of 
domestic life. Whether Mary was guilty or not, whether her 
supporters were rising, whether the shadow of Spain chilled the 
hearts of men in London whose affair it was to look after such 


THE SITUATION 7 


things; yet the cows must be milked, and the children washed, 
and the falcons fed; and it was these things that formed the 
foreground of life, whether the sky were stormy or sunlit. 

And so, as the autumn of ’69 crept over the woods in flame and 
russet, and the sound of the sickle was in folks’ ears, the life 
at Great Keynes was far more tranquil than we should fancy 
who look back on those stirring days. The village, lying as it 
did out of the direct route between any larger towns, was not 
so much affected by the gallop of the couriers, or the slow creeping 
rumours from the Continent, as villages that lay on lines of fre- 
quent communication. So the simple life went on, and Isabel 
went about her business in Mrs. Carroll’s still-room, and Anthony 
rode out with the harriers, and Sir Nicholas told his beads in his 
room—all with nearly as much serenity as if Scotland were fairy- 
land and Spain a dream. 


CHAPTER II 
THE HALL AND THE HOUSE 


ANTHONY Norris, who was now about fourteen, went up to 
King’s College, Cambridge, in October. He was closeted long 
with his father the night before he left, and received from him 
much sound religious advice and exhortation; and in the morn- 
ing, after an almost broken-hearted good-bye from Isabel, he 
rode out with his servant following on another horse and leading 
a packhorse on the saddle of which the falcons swayed and stag- 
gered, and up the curving drive that led round into the village 
green. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-minded boy, and 
left a real ache behind him in the Dower House. 

Isabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his 
feathered cap disappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her 
father in the hall; and after shutting and latching the door, threw 
herself on his bed, and sobbed her heart out. They had never 
been long separated before. For the last three years he had 
gone over to the Rectory morning by morning to be instructed 
by Mr. Dent; but now, although he would never make a great 
scholar, his father thought it well to send him up to Cambridge 
for two or three years, that he might learn to find his own level 
in the world. 

Anthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, 
he fretted a little against the restraints of even such a moderate 
Puritan household as that of his father’s. It was a considerable 
weariness to Anthony to kneel in the hall on a fresh morning while 
his father read, even though with fervour and sincerity, long 
extracts from ‘Christian Prayers and Holy Meditations,” col- 
lected by the Reverend Henry Bull, when the real world, as 
Anthony knew it, laughed and rippled and twinkled outside in the 
humming summer air of the lawn and orchard; or to have to 
listen to godly discourses, however edifying to elder persons, just 
at the time when the ghost-moth was beginning to glimmer in 
the dusk, and the heavy trout to suck down his supper in the 
glooming pool in the meadow below the house. 

8 


THE HALL AND THE HOUSE 9 


His very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, 
were obviously displeasing to the grave divines who haunted 
the house so often from Saturday to Monday, and spoke of high 
doctrinal matters at meal-times, when, so Anthony thought, 
lighter subjects should prevail. They were not interested in his 
horse, and Anthony never felt quite the same again towards one 
good minister who in a moment of severity called Eliza, the 
glorious peregrine that sat on the boy’s wrist and shook her bells, 
a “vanity.” And so Anthony trotted off happy enough on his 
way to Cambridge, of which he had heard much from Mr. Dent; 
and where, although there too were divines and theology, there 
were boys as well who acted plays, hunted with the hounds, and 
did not call high-bred hawks ‘“‘vanities.” 

Isabel was very different. While Anthony was cheerful and 
active like his mother who had died in giving him life, she, oa 
the other hand, was quiet and deep like her father. She was 
growing up, if not into actual beauty, at least into grace and 
dignity: but there were some who thought her beautiful. She 
was pale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of her father; 
and she loved and lived in Anthony from the very difference 
between them. She frankly could not understand the attraction 
of sport, and the things that pleased her brother; she was afraid 
of the hawks, and liked to stroke a horse and kiss his soft nose 
better than to ride him. But, after all, Anthony liked to watch 
the towering bird, and to hear and indeed increase the thunder 
of the hoofs across the meadows behind the stooping hawk; and 
so she did her best to like them too; and she was often torn two 
ways by her sympathy for the partridge on the one hand, as it 
sped low and swift across the standing corn with that dread 
shadow following, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony 
should not be disappointed. 

But in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide 
difference between them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through 
his chair-back morning and evening, Isabel’s soul soared up to 
God on the wings of those sounding phrases. She had inherited 
all her father’s tender piety, and lived, like him, on the most 
intimate terms with the spiritual world. And though, of course, 
by training she was Puritan, by character she was Puritan too. 
As a girl of fourteen she had gone with Anthony to see the cleans- 
ing of the village temple. They had stood together at the west 
end of the church a little timid at the sight of that noisy crowd 
in the quiet house of prayer; but she had felt no disapproval 


10 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


at that fierce vindication of truth. Her father had taught her of 
course that the purest worship was that which was only spiritual; 
and while since childhood she had seen Sunday by Sunday the 
Great Rood overhead, she had never paid it any but artistic atten- 
tion. The men had the ropes round it now, and it was swaying 
violently to and fro; and then, even as the children watched, a 
tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armed 
figure had toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed 
down on the pavement. A fanatic ran out and furiously kicked 
the thorn-crowned head twice, splintering the hair and the 
features, and cried out on it as an idol; and yet Isabel, with all 
her tenderness, felt nothing more than a vague regret that a piece 
of carving so ancient and so delicate should be broken. 

But when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with 
them had stamped out, directed by the Justices, dragging the 
figures and the old vestments with them to the green, she had 
seen something which touched her heart much more. She passed 
up alone under the screen, which they had spared, to see what 
had been done in the chancel; and as she went she heard a sob- 
bing from the corner near the priest’s door; and there, crouched 
forward on his face, crying and moaning quietly, was the old 
priest who had been Rector of the church for nearly twenty years. 
He had somehow held on in Edward’s time in spite of difficulties; 
had thanked God and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for 
the accession of Mary; had prayed and deprecated the divine 
wrath at the return of the Protestant religion with Elizabeth; 
but yet had somehow managed to keep the old faith alight for 
eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimes resisting, and 
sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes of better 
days. But now the blow had fallen, and the old man, too ill- 
instructed to hear the accents of new truth in the shouting of 
that noisy crowd and the crash of his images, was on his knees 
before the altar where he had daily offered the holy sacrifice 
through all those troublous years, faithful to what he believed to 
be God’s truth, now bewailing and moaning the horrors of that 
day, and, it is to be feared, unchristianly calling down the 
vengeance of God upon his faithless flock. This shocked and 
touched Isabel far more than the destruction of the images; and 
she went forward timidly and said something; but the old man 
turned on her a face of such misery and anger that she had run 
straight out of the church, and joined Anthony as he danced 
on the green. 


THE HALL AND THE HOUSE II 


On the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a 
fervent young minister from London had taken his place, and 
preached a stirring sermon on the life and times of Josiah; and 
Isabel had thanked God on her knees after the sermon for that 
He had once more vindicated His awful Name and cleansed His 
House for a pure worship. . 

But the very centre of Isabel’s religion was the love of the 
Saviour. The Puritans of those early days were very far from 
holding a negative or colourless faith. Not only was their belief 
delicately dogmatic to excess; but it all centred round the Person 
of the Lord Jesus Christ. And Isabel had drunk in this faith 
from her father’s lips, and from devotional books which he gave — 
her, as far back as she could remember anything. Her love for 
the Saviour was even romantic and passionate. It seemed to her 
that He was as much a part of her life, and of her actual experi- 
ence, as Anthony or her father. Certain places in the lanes 
about, and certain spots in the garden, were sacred and fragrant 
to her because her Lord had met her there. It was indeed a 
trouble to her sometimes that she loved Anthony so much; and 
to her mind it was a less worthy kind of love altogether; it was 
kindled and quickened by such little external details, by the sight 
of his boyish hand brown with the sun and scarred by small 
sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird’s beak or talons, 
or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head had 
rested only an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was 
a deep and solemn passion that seemed to well not out of His 
comeliness or even His marred Face or pierced Hands, but out 
of His wide encompassing love that sustained and clasped her 
at every moment of her conscious attention to Him, and that 
woke her soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion. These 
two loves then, one so earthly, one so heavenly, but both so 
sweet, every now and then seemed to her to be in slight conflict 
in her heart. And lately a third seemed to be rising up out of 
the plane of sober and quiet affections such as she felt for her 
father, and still further complicating the apparently encountering 
claims of love to God and man. 

Isabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following 
Anthony with her imagination along the lane that led to the 
London road, and then presently she heard her father calling, and 
went to the door to listen. 

“Tsabel,” he said, “come down. Hubert is in the hall.” 

She called out that she would be down in a moment; and then 


12 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


going across to her own room she washed her face and came 
downstairs. There was a tall, pleasant-faced lad of about her 
own age standing near the open door that led into the garden; 
and he came forward nervously as she entered. 

“T came back last night, Mistress Isabel,” he said, ‘‘and heard 
that Anthony was going this morning: but I am afraid I am 
too late.” 

She told him that Anthony had just gone. 

“Ves,” he said, “I came to say good-bye; but I came by the 
orchard, and so we missed one another.” 

Isabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and 
they talked for a few minutes about a rumour that Hubert had 
heard of a rising on behalf of Mary: but Hubert was shy and 
constrained, and Isabel was still a little tremulous. At last he 
said he must be going, and then suddenly remembered a message 
from his mother. 

“Ah!” he said, “I was forgetting. My mother wants you to 
come up this evening, if you have time. Father is away, and my 
aunt is unwell and is upstairs.” 

Isabel promised she would come. 

“Father is at Chichester,”’ went on Hubert, “before the Com- 
mission, but we do not expect him back till to-morrow.” 

A shadow passed across Isabel’s face. “I am sorry,” she said. 

The fact was that Sir Nicholas had again been summoned for 
recusancy. It was an expensive matter to refuse to attend church, 
and Sir Nicholas probably paid not less than £200 or £300 a 
year for the privilege of worshipping as his conscience bade. 

In the evening Isabel asked her father’s leave to be absent after 
supper, and then drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk 
to the Hall. Hubert was waiting for her at the boundary door 
between the two properties. 

“Father has come back,” he said, “but my mother wants you 
still.” They went on together, passed round the cloister. wing 
to the south of the house: the bell turret over the inner hall and 
the crowded roofs stood up against the stars, as they came upy 
the curving flight of shallow steps from the garden to the tall 
doorway that led into the hall. 

It was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, 
and hung with a little old tapestry here and there, and a few 
portraits. A staircase rose out of it to the upper story. It had 
a fret-ceiling, with flower-de-luce and rose pendants, and on the 
walls between the tapestries hung a few antlers and pieces of 


THE HALL AND THE HOUSE ! 13 


armour, morions and breast-plates, with a pair of pikes or hal- 
berds here and there. A fire had been lighted in the great hearth 
as the evenings were chilly; and Sir Nicholas was standing before 
it, still in his riding-dress, pouring out resentment and fury to 
his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. She turned 
silently and held out a hand to Isabel, who came and stood beside 
her, while Hubert went and sat down near his father. Sir 
Nicholas scarcely seemed to notice their entrance, beyond glanc- 
ing up for a moment under his fierce white eyebrows; but went 
on growling out his wrath. He was a fine rosy man, with grey 
moustache and pointed beard, and a thick head of hair, and he 
held in his hand his flat riding cap, and his whip with which from 
time to time he cut at his boot. 

“It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be 
haled from his home like this to pay a price for his conscience. 
The religion of my father and his father and all our fathers was 
good enough for me; and why in God’s name should the Catholic 
have to pay who had never changed his faith, while every heretic 
went free? And then to that some stripling of a clerk told me 
that a religion that was good enough for the Queen’s Grace should 
be good enough for her loyal subjects too; but my Lord silenced 
him quickly. And then I went at them again; and all my Lord 
would do was to nod his head and smile at me as if I were a child; 
and then he told me that it was a special Commission all for my 
sake, and Sir Arthur’s, who was there too, my dear. . . . Well, 
well, the end was that I had to pay for their cursed religion.” 

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” said Lady Maxwell, glancing at 
Isabel. 

“Well, I paid,’ went on Sir Nicholas, “but I showed them, 
thank God, what I was: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I 
together, what should we see but another party coming in, pur- 
suivant and all; and in the mid of them that priest who was with 
us last July—Well, well, we’ll leave his name alone—him that 
said he was a priest before them all in September; and I went 
down on my knees, thank God, and Sir Arthur went down on his, 
and we asked his blessing before them all, and he gave it us: 
and oh! my Lord was red and white with passion.” 

“That was not wise, sweetheart,” said Lady Maxwell tran- 
quilly, “the priest will have suffered for it afterwards.” 

“Well, well,’ grumbled Sir Nicholas, “a man cannot always 
think, but we showed them that Catholics were not ashamed of 
their religion—yes, and we got the blessing too.” 


14 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Well, but here is supper waiting,” said my lady, ‘‘and Isabel, 
too, whom you have not spoken to yet.” 

Sir Nicholas paid no attention. 

“Ah! but that was not all,” he went on, savagely striking 
his boot again, “at the end of all who should I see but that— 
that—damned rogue—whom God reward!”—and he turned and 
spat into the fire—‘‘Topcliffe. There he was, bowing to my 
Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man,” he 
said, “when I think of that man—” and Sir Nicholas’ kindly old 
passionate face grew pale and lowering with fury, and his eye- 
brows bent themselves forward, and his lower lip pushed itself 
out, and his hand closed tremblingly on his whip. 

His wife laid down her embroidery and came to him. 

“There, sweetheart,” she said, taking his cap and whip. ‘Now 
sit down and have supper, and leave that man to God.” 

Sir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after saying a word or 
two of apology to Isabel, left the room to wash before he sat 
down to supper. 

“Mistress Isabel does not know who Topcliffe is,’’ said Hubert. 

“Hush, my son,” said his mother, “your father does not like 
his name to be spoken.” 

Presently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. 
Gradually his good nature returned, and he told them what he 
had seen in Chichester, and the talk he had heard. How it was 
reported to his lordship the Bishop that the old religion was still 
the religion of the people’s hearts—how, for example, at Lindfield 
they had all the images and the altar furniture hidden under- 
ground, and at Battle, too; and that the mass could be set up 
again at a few hours’ notice: and that the chalices had not been 
melted down into communion cups according to the orders issued, 
and so on. And that at West Grinsted, moreover, the Blessed 
Sacrament was there still—praise God—yes, and was going to 
remain there. He spoke freely before Isabel, and yet he remem- 
bered his courtesy too, and did not abuse the new-fangled religion, 
as he thought it, in her presence; or seek in any way to trouble 
her mind. If ever in an excess of anger he was carried away in 
his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he would 
always respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed 
good manners. Im fact, he was just a fiery old man who could 
not change his religion even at the bidding of his monarch, and 
could not understand how what was right twenty years ago was 
wrong now. 


THE HALL AND THE HOUSE 15 


Isabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe 
too; because she loved and honoured this old man in spite of the 
darkness in which he still walked. He also told them in lower 
tones of a rumour that was persistent at Chichester that the 
Duke of Norfolk had been imprisoned by the Queen’s orders, 
and was to be charged with treason; and that he was at present 
at Burnham, in Mr. Wentworth’s house, under the guard of Sir 
Henry Neville. If this was true, as indeed it turned out to be 
later, it was another blow to the Catholic cause in England; but 
Sir Nichclas was of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the whole 
affair even while he related it. 

And so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had 
finished supper, they all went upstairs to my lady’s withdrawing- 
room on the first floor. This was always a strange and beautiful 
room to Isabel. It was panelled like the room below, but was 
more delicately furnished, and a tall harp stood near the window 
to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweet tremulous old voice, 
while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too, had had some 
lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanity troubled 
her Puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too, 
had curious and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak 
over the fireplace held a slender image of Mary and her Holy 
Child, and from the Child’s fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel 
had a strange sense sometimes as if this holy couple had taken 
refuge in that niche when they were driven from the church; 
but it seemed to her in her steadier moods that this was a super- 
Stitious fancy, and had the nature of sin. 

This evening the old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat 
down near her in the wide window seat and looked out over the 
dark lawn where the white dial glimmered like a phantom, and 
thought of Anthony again. Sir Nicholas went and stretched him- 
self before the fire, and closed his eyes, for he was old, and tired 
with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in a dark corner near 
him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few rippling chords 
my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she 
and Sir Nicholas had known in their youth; and which she had 
caused to be set to music by some foreign chapel master. It 
was a sorrowful little song, with the title, ““He seeketh comfort in 
patience,” and possibly she chose it on purpose for this evening. 

“Patience! for I have wrong, 


And dare not shew wherein; 
Patience shall be my song: 


16 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Since truth can nothing win. 
Patience then for this fit; 
Hereafter comes not yet.” 


While she sang, she thought no doubt of the foolish brave 
courtier who lacked patience in spite of his singing, and lost his 
head for it; her voice shook once or twice: and old Sir Nicholas 
shook his drowsy head when she had finished, and said ‘‘God rest 
him,” and then fell fast asleep. 

Then he presently awoke as the others talked in whispers, and 
joined in too: and they talked of Anthony, and what he would 
find at Cambridge; and of Alderman Marrett, and his house off 
Cheapside, where Anthony would lie that night; and of such small 
and tranquil topics, and left fiercer questions alone. And so the 
evening came to an end; and Isabel said good-night, and went 
downstairs with Hubert, and out into the garden again. 

“T am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled,” she said 
to Hubert, as they turned the corner of the house together. “Why 
cannot we leave one another alone, and each worship God as we 
think fit?” 

Hubert smiled in the darkness to himself. 

“T am afraid Queen Mary did not think it could be done, 
either,” he said. “But then, Mistress Isabel,” he went on, “I am 
glad that you feel that religion should not divide people.” 

“Surely not,” she said, “‘so long as they love God.” 

“Then you think—” began Hubert, and then stopped. 

Isabel turned to him. 

“Ves?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” said Hubert. 

They had reached the door in the boundary wall by now, and 
Isabel would not let him come further with her and bade him 
good-night. But Hubert still stood, with his hand on the door, 
and watched the white figure fade into the dusk, and listened 
to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dry leaves; and then, when 
he heard at last the door of the Dower House open and close, 
he sighed to himself and went home. 

Isabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through 
the hall; and went in to him as he sat at his table in his furred 
gown, with his books about him, to bid him good-night and receive 
his blessing. He lifted his hands for a moment to finish the 
sentence he was writing, and she stood watching the quill move 
and pause and move again over the paper, in the candlelight, until 
he laid the pen down, and rose and stood with his back to the 


THE HALL AND THE HOUSE 17 


fire, smiling down at her. He was a tall, slender man, surpris- 
ingly upright for his age, with a delicate, bearded, scholar’s face; 
the little plain ruff round his neck helped to emphasise the fine 
sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which he stretched out 
' to his daughter were thin and veined. 

“Well, my daughter,” he said, looking down at her with his 
kindly grey eyes so like her own, and holding her hands. 

‘“‘Flave you had a good evening, sir?” she asked. 

He nodded briskly. 

“And you, child?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling up at him. 

“And was Sir Nicholas there?” 

She told him what had passed, and how Sir Nicholas had been 
fined again for his recusancy; and how Lady Maxwell had sung 
one of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s songs. 

‘“‘And was no one else there?” he asked. 

“Ves, father, Hubert.” 

‘“Ah! And did Hubert come home with you?” 

“Only as far as the gate, father. I would not let him come 
further.” 

Her father said nothing, but still looked steadily down into 
her eyes for a moment, and then turned and looked away from 
her into the fire. 

“You must take care,” he said gently. “Remember he is a 
Papist, born and bred; and that he has a heart to be broken too.” 

She felt herself steadily flushing; and as he turned again 
towards her, dropped her eyes. 

“You will be prudent and tender, I know,” he added. “TI trust 
you wholly, Isabel.” 

Then he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her 
head, and looked up, as the Puritan manner was. 

“May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you 
faithful to the end.” And then he looked into her eyes again, 
smiled and nodded; and she went out, leaving him standing there. 

Mr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but 
as yet he did not know whether Isabel understood it or even was 
aware of it. The marriage difficulties of Catholics and Protestants 
were scarcely yet existing; and certainly there was no formulated 
rule of dealing with them. Changes of religion were so frequent 
in those days that difficulties, when they did arise, easily adjusted 
themselves. It was considered, for example, by politicians quite 
possible at one time that the Duke of Anjou should conform to 


18 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the Church of England for the sake of marrying the Queen: or 
that he should attend public services with her, and at the same 
time have mass and the sacraments in his own private chapel. 
Or again, it was open to question whether England as a whole 
would not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the only 
tolerated faith. 

But to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It 
would have been an intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, 
with all his tolerance, that his daughter should marry a Catholic; 
such an arrangement would mean either that she was indifferent 
to vital religion, or that she was married to a man whose creed 
she was bound to abhor and anathematise: and however willing 
Mr. Norris might be to meet Papists on terms of social friendli- 
ness, and however much he might respect their personal charac- 
ters, yet the thought that the life of any one dear to him should 
be irretrievably bound up with ail that the Catholic creed involved, 
was simply an impossible one. 

Besides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought 
he detected in him a carelessness and want of principle that would 
make him hesitate to trust his daughter to him, even if the 
insuperable barrier of religion were surmounted. Mr. Norris liked 
a man to be consistent and zealous for his creed, even if that creed 
were dark and superstitious—and this zeal seemed to him lamen- 
tably lacking in Hubert. More than once he had heard the boy 
speak of his father with an air of easy indulgence, that his own 
opinion interpreted as contempt. 

“YT believe my father thinks,’ he had once said, ‘that every 
penny he pays in fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God.” 

And Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when 
the elder man had told him to hold his tongue unless he could 
speak respectfully of one to whom he owed nothing but love and 
honour. This had happened, however, more than a year ago; 
and Hubert had forgotten it, no doubt, even if Mr. Norris had not. 

And as for Isabel. 

It is exceedingly difficult 6 say quite what place Hubert occu- 
pied in her mind. She certainly did not know herself much more 
than that she liked the boy to be near her; to hear his footsteps 
coming along the path from the Hall. This morning when her 
father had called up to her that Hubert was come, it was not so 
hard to dry her tears for Anthony’s departure. The clouds had 
parted a little when she came and found this tall lad smiling 
shyly at her in the hall. As she had sat in the window seat, too, 


THE HALL AND THE HOUSE 19 


during Lady Maxwell’s singing, she was far from unconscious 
that Hubert’s face was looking at her from the dark corner. And 
as they walked back together her simplicity was not quite so 
transparent as the boy himself thought. 

Again when her father had begun to speak of him just now, 
although she was able to meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, 
yet it was just an effort. She had not mentioned Hubert herself, 
until her father had named him; and in fact it is probably safe 
to say that during Hubert’s visit to the north, which had lasted 
three or four months, he had made greater progress towards his 
goal, and had begun to loom larger than ever in the heart of this 
serene grey-eyed girl, whom he longed for so irresistibly. 

And now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her 
prayers, Hubert was in her mind even more than Anthony. 
She tried to wonder what her father meant, and yet only too 
well she knew that she knew. She had forgotten to look into 
Anthony’s room where she had cried so bitterly this morning, 
and now she sat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as to whether 
her heavenly love were as lucid and single as it had been; and 
when at last she went down on her knees she entreated the King 
of Love to bless not only her father, and her brother Anthony who 
lay under the Alderman’s roof in far-away London; but Sir 
Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Margaret Hallam, and 
—and—Hubert—and James Maxwell, his brother; and to bring 
them out of the darkness of Papistry into the glorious liberty of 
the children of the Gospel. 


CHAPTER III 
LONDON TOWN 


IsABEL’s visit to London, which had been arranged to take place 
the Christmas after Anthony’s departure to Cambridge, was full 
of bewildering experiences to her. Mr. Norris from time to time 
had references to look up in London, and divines to consult as 
te difficult points in his book on the Eucharist; and this was a 
favourable opportunity to see Mr. Dering, the St. Paul’s lecturer; 
so the two took the opportunity, and with a couple of servants 
drove up to the City one day early in December to the house of 
Alderman Marrett, the wool merchant, and a friend of Mr. 
Norris’ father; and for several days both before and after 
Anthony’s arrival from Cambridge went every afternoon to see 
the sights. The maze of narrow streets of high black and white 
houses with their iron-work signs, leaning forward as if to whisper 
to one another, leaving strips of sky overhead; the strange play 
of lights and shades after nightfall; the fantastic groups; the 
incessant roar and rumble of the crowded alleys—all the common- 
place life of London was like an enchanted picture to her, opening 
a glimpse into an existence of which she had known nothing. 

To live, too, in the whirl of news that poured in day after day 
borne by splashed riders and panting horses;—this was very 
different to the slow round of country life, with rumours and tales 
floating in, mellowed by doubt and lapse of time, like pensive 
echoes from another world. For example, morning by morning, 
as she came downstairs to breakfast, there was the ruddy-faced 
Alderman with his fresh budget of news of the north;—Lords 
Northumberland and Westmoreland with a Catholic force of sev- 
eral thousands, among which were two cousins of Mrs. Marrett 
herself—and the old lady nodded her head dolorously in cor- 
roboration—had marched southwards under the Banner of the 
Five Wounds, and tramped through Durham City welcomed by 
hundreds of the citizens; the Cathedral had been entered, old 
Richard Norton with the banner leading; the new Communion 
table had been cast out of doors, the English Bible and Prayer- 
book torn to shreds, the old altar reverently carried in from the 

20 


LONDON TOWN 21 


rubbish heap, the tapers rekindled, and amid hysterical enthusi- 
asm Mass had been said once more in the old sanctuary. 

Then they had moved south; Lord Sussex was powerless in 
York; the Queen, terrified and irresolute, alternately storming 
and crying; Spain was about to send ships to Hartlepool to help 
the rebels; Mary Stuart would certainly be rescued from her 
prison at Tutbury. Then Mary had been moved to Coventry; 
then came a last flare of frightening tales: York had fallen; 
Mary had escaped; Elizabeth was preparing to flee. 

And then one morning the Alderman’s face was brighter: it 
was all a lie, he said. The revolt had crumbled away; my Lord 
Sussex was impregnably fortified in York with guns from Hull; 
Lord Pembroke was gathering forces at Windsor; Lords Clinton, 
Hereford and Warwick were converging towards York to relieve 
the siege. And as if to show Isabel it was not a mere romance, 
she could see the actual train-bands go by up Cheapside with 
the gleam of steel caps and pike-heads, and the mighty tramp of 
disciplined feet, and the welcoming roar of the swarming crowds. 

Then as men’s hearts grew lighter the tale of chastisement 
began to be told, and was not finished till long after Isabel was 
home again. Green after green of the windy northern villages 
was made hideous by the hanging bodies of the natives, and 
children hid their faces and ran by lest they should see what 
her Grace had done to their father. 

In spite of the Holy Sacrifice, and the piteous banner, and the 
call to fight for the faith, the Catholics had hung back and hesi- 
tated, and the catastrophe was complete. 

The religion of London, too, was a revelation to this country 
girl. She went one Sunday to St. Paul’s Cathedral, pausing with 
her father before they went in to see the new restorations and 
the truncated steeple struck by lightning eight years before, which 
in spite of the Queen’s angry urging the citizens had never been 
able to replace. 

There was a good congregation at the early morning prayer; 
and the organs and the singing were to Isabel as the harps and 
choirs of heaven. The canticles were sung to Shephard’s setting 
by the men and children of St. Paul’s all in surplices: and the 
dignitaries wore besides their grey fur almuces, which had not 
yet been abolished. The grace and dignity of the whole service, 
though to older people who remembered the unreformed worship 
a bare and miserable affair, and to Mr. Norris, with his sincere 
simplicity and spirituality, a somewhat elaborate and sensuous 


22 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


mode of honouring God, yet to Isabel was a first glimpse of 
what the mystery of worship meant. The dim towering arches, 
through which the dusty richly-stained sunbeams poured, the 
far-away murmurous melodies that floated down from the glim- 
mering choir, the high thin-pealing organ, all combined to give 
her a sense of the unfathomable depths of the Divine Majesty— 
an element that was lacking in the clear-cut personal Puritan 
creed, in spite of the tender associations that made it fragrant 
for her, and the love of the Saviour that enlightened and warmed 
it. The sight of the crowds outside, too, in the frosty sunlight, 
gathered round the grey stone pulpit on the north-east of the 
Cathedral, and streaming down every alley and lane, the packed 
galleries, the gesticulating black figure of the preacher—this 
impressed on her an idea of the power of corporate religion, that 
hours at her own prayer-desk, or solitary twilight walks under 
the Hall pines, or the uneventful divisions of the Rector’s village 
sermons, had failed to give. 

It was this Sunday in London that awakened her quiet soul 
from the lonely companionship of God, to the knowledge of that 
vast spiritual world of men of which she was but one tiny cell. 
Her father observed her quietly and interestedly as they went 
home together, but said nothing beyond an indifferent word or 
two. He was beginning to realise the serious reality of her 
spiritual life, and to dread anything that would even approximate 
to coming between her soul and her Saviour. The father and 
daughter understood one another, and were content to be silent | 
together. 

Her talks with Mrs. Marrett, too, left their traces on her mind. 
The Alderman’s wife, for the first time in her life, found her 
views and reminiscences listened to as if they were oracles, and 
she needed little encouragement to pour them out in profusion. 
She was especially generous with her tales of portents and warn- 
ings; and the girl was more than once considerably alarmed by 
what she heard while the ladies were alone in the dim firelit 
parlour on the winter afternoons before the candles were 
brought in. 

‘When you were a little child, my dear,” began the old lady 
one day, “there was a great burning made everywhere of all the 
popish images and vestments; all but the copes and the altar- 
cloths that they made into dresses for the ministers’ new wives, 
and bed-quilts to cover them; and there were books and banners 
and sepulchres and even relics. I went out to see the burning at 


LONDON TOWN 23 


Paul’s, and though I knew it was proper that the old papistry 
should go, yet I was uneasy at the way it was done. 

“Well,” went on the old lady, glancing about her, “I was sit- 
ting in this very room only a few days after, and the air began 
to grow dark and heavy, and all became still. There had been 
two or three cocks crowing and answering one another down by 
the river, and others at a distance; and they all ceased: and there 
had been birds chirping in the roof, and they ceased. And it 
grew so dark that I laid down my needle and went to the window, 
and there at the end of the street over the houses there was 
coming a great cloud, with wings like a hawk, I thought; but 
some said afterwards that, when they saw it, it had fingers like 
a man’s hand, and others said it was like a great tower, with 
battlements. However that may be, it grew nearer and larger, 
and it was blue and dark like that curtain there; and there was 
no wind to stir it, for the windows had ceased rattling, and the 
dust was quiet in the streets; and still it came on quickly, growing 
as it came; and then there came a far-away sound, like a heavy 
waggon, or, some said, like a deep voice complaining. And I 
turned away from the window afraid; and there was the cat, 
that had been on a chair, down in the corner, with her back up, 
staring at the cloud: and then she began to run round the room 
like a mad thing, and presently whisked out of the door when I 
opened it. And I went to find Mr. Marrett, and he had not come 
in, and all the yard was quiet. I could only hear a horse stamp 
once or twice in the stable. And then as I was calling out for 
some one to come, the storm broke, and the sky was all one dark 
cloud from side to side. For three hours it went on, rolling and 
clapping, and the lightning came in through the window that I 
had darkened and through the clothes over my head; for I had 
gone to my bed and rolled myself round under the clothes. And 
so it went on—and, my dear—” and Mrs. Marrett put her head 
close to Isabel’s—‘“I prayed to our Lady and the saints, which 
I had not done since I was married; and asked them to pray 
God to keep me safe. And then at the end came a clap of thunder 
and a flash of lightning more fearful than all that had- gone 
before; and at that very moment, so Mr. Marrett told me when 
he came in, two of the doors in St. Denys’ Church in Fanshawe 
Street were broken in pieces by something that crushed them in, 
and the stone steeple of Allhallow Church in Bread Street was 
broken off short, and a part of it killed a dog that was beneath, 
and overthrew a man that played with the dog.” 


24 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Isabel could hardly restrain a shiver and a glance round the 
dark old room, so awful were Mrs. Marrett’s face and gestures 
and loud whispering tone, as she told this. 

‘““Ah! but, my dear,” she went on, “there was worse happened 
to poor King Hal, God rest him—him who began to reform the 
Church, as they say, and destroyed the monasteries. All the 
money that he left for masses for his soul was carried off with 
the rest at the change of religion; and that was bad enough, but 
this is worse. This is a tale, my dear, that I have heard my 
father tell many a time; and I was a young woman myself when 
it happened. The King’s Grace was threatened by a friar, I 
think of Greenwich, that if he laid hands on the monasteries he 
should be as Ahab whose blood was licked by dogs in the very 
place which he took from aman. Well, the friar was hanged for 
his pains, and the King lived. And then at last he died, and 
was put in a great coffin, and carried through London; and they 
put the coffin in an open space in Sion Abbey, which the King had 
taken. And in the night there came one to view the coffin, and 
to see that all was well. And he came round the corner, and 
there stood the great coffin—(for his Grace was a great stout man, 
my dear)—on trestles in the moonlight, and beneath it a great 
black dog that lapped something: and the dog turned as the man 
came, and some say, but not my father, that the dog’s eyes were 
red as coals, and that his mouth and nostrils smoked, and that 
he cast no shadow; but (however that may be) the dog turned 
and looked and then ran; and the man followed him into a yard, 
but when he reached there, there was no dog. And the man went 
back to the coffin afraid; and he found the coffin was burst open, 
and—and. 3 
Mrs. Marrett stopped abruptly. Isabel was white and trem- 

bling. 

“There, there, my dear. I am a foolish old woman; and I'll 
tell you no more.” 

Isabel was really terrified, and entreated Mrs. Marrett to tell 
her something pleasant to make her forget these horrors; and so 
she told her old tales of her youth, and the sights of the city, and 
the great doings in Mary’s reign; and so the time passed pleas- 
antly till the gentlemen came home. 

At other times she told her of Elizabeth and the great nobles, 
and Isabel’s heart beat high at it, and at the promise that before 
she left she herself should see the Queen, even if she had to go 
to Greenwich or Nonsuch for it. 





LONDON TOWN 25 


“God bless her,” said Mrs. Marrett loyally, “she’s a woman 
like ourselves for all her majesty. And she likes the show and 
the music too, like us all. I declare when I see them all a-going 
down the water to Greenwich, or to the Tower for a bear-baiting, 
with the horns blowing and the guns firing and the banners and 
the barges and the music, I declare sometimes I think that heaven 
itself can be no better, God forgive me! Ah! but I wish her 
Grace’d take a husband; there are many that want her; and then 
we could laugh at them all. There’s so many against her Grace 
now who’d be for her if she had a son of her own. There’s Duke 
Charles whose picture hangs in her bedroom, they say; and Lord 
Robert Dudley—there’s a handsome spark, my dear, in his gay 
coat and his feathers and his ruff, and his hand on his hip, and his 
horse and all. I wish she’d take him and have done with it. 
And then we’d hear no more of the nasty Spaniards. There’s 
Don de Silva, for all the world like a monkey with his brown 
face and mincing ways and his grand clothes. I declare when 
Captain Hawkins came home, just four years ago last Michael- 
mas, and came up to London with his men, all laughing and 
rolling along with the people cheering them, I could have kissed 
the man—to think how he had made the brown men dance and 
curse and show their white teeth; and to think that the Don 
had to ask him to dinner, and grin and chatter as if nought had 
happened.” 

And Mrs. Marrett’s good-humoured face broke into mirth at 
the thought of the Ambassador’s impotence and duplicity. 

Anthony’s arrival in London a few days before Christmas 
removed the one obstacle to Isabel’s satisfaction—that he was 
not there to share it with her. The two went about together 
most of the day under their father’s care, when he was not busy 
at his book, and saw all that was to be seen. 

One afternoon as they were just leaving the courtyard of the 
Tower, which they had been visiting with a special order, a 
slight reddish-haired man, who came suddenly out of a doorway 
of the White Tower, stopped a moment irresolutely, and then 
came towards them, bare-headed and bowing. He had sloping 
shoulders and a serious-looking mouth, with a reddish beard and 
moustache, and had an air of strangely mingled submissiveness 
and capability. His voice too, as he spoke, was at once deferential 
and decided. 

“I ask your pardon, Mr. Norris,” he said. ‘Perhaps you do 
not remember me.” 


26 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“T have seen you before,’”’ said the other, puzzled for a moment. 

“Yes, sir,” said the man, “down at Great Keynes; I was in 
service at the Hall, sir.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Norris, “I remember you perfectly. 
Lackington, is it not?” 

The man bowed again. 

“T left about eight years ago, sir; and by the blessing of God, 
have gained a little post under the Government. But I wished 
to tell you, sir, that I have been happily led to change my religion. 
I was a Papist, sir, you know.” 

Mr. Norris congratulated him. 

“T thank you, sir,” said Lackington. 

The two children were looking at him; and he turned to them 
and bowed again. 

“Mistress Isabel and Master Anthony, sir, is it not?” 

“T remember you,” said Isabel a little shyly, “at least, I 
think so.” 

Lackington bowed again as if gratified; and turned to their 
father. 

“If you are leaving, Mr. Norris, would you allow me to walk 
with you a few steps? I have much I would like to ask you of 
my old master and mistress.” 

The four passed out together, the two children in front; and 
as they went Lackington asked most eagerly after the household 
at the Hall, and especially after Mr. James, for whom he seemed 
to have a special affection. 

“Tt is rumoured,” said Mr. Norris, “that he is going abroad.” 

“Indeed, sir,” said the servant, with a look of great interest, 
“TI had heard it too, sir; but did not know whether to believe it.” 

Lackington also gave many messages of affection to others of © 
the household, to Piers the bailiff, and a couple of the foresters: 
and finished by entreating Mr. Norris to use him as he 
would, telling him how anxious he was to be of service to his 
friends, and asking to be entrusted with any little errands 
or commissions in London that the country gentleman might wish 
performed. 

“T shall count it, sir, a privilege,” said the servant, ‘and you 
shall find me prompt and discreet.” 

One curious incident took place just as Lackington was taking 
his leave at the turning down into Wharf Street; a man hurrying 
eastwards almost ran against them, and seemed on the point of 
apologising, but his face changed suddenly, and he spat furiously 


LONDON TOWN 27 


on the ground, mumbling something, and hurried on. Lackington 
seemed to see nothing. 

“Why did he do that?” interrupted Mr. Norris, astonished. 

“T ask your pardon, sir?”’ said Lackington interrogatively. 

“That fellow! did you not see him spit at me?” 

“T did not observe it, sir,’’ said the servant; and presently took 
his leave. 

“Why did that man spit at you, father?” asked Isabel when 
they had come indoors. 

“T cannot think, my dear; I have never seen him in my life.” 

“T think Lackington knew,” said Anthony, with a shrewd air. 

“Lackington! Why, Lackington did not even see him.” 

“That was just it,” said Anthony. 

Anthony’s talk about Cambridge during these first evenings 
in London was fascinating to Isabel, if not to their father, too. 
It concerned of course himself and his immediate friends, and 
dealt with such subjects as cock-fighting a good deal; but he 
spoke also of the public disputations and the theological cham- 
pions who crowed and pecked, not unlike cocks themselves, while 
the theatre rang with applause and hooting. The sport was one 
of the most popular at the universities at this time. But above 
all his tales of the Queen’s visit a few years before attracted the 
girl, for was she not to see the Queen with her own eyes? 

“Oh! father,” said the lad, “I would I had been there five 
years ago when she came. Master Taylor told me of it. They 
acted the Awlularia, you know, in King’s Chapel on the Sunday 
evening. Master Taylor took a part, 1 forget what; and he told 
me how she laughed and clapped. And then there was a great 
disputation before her, one day, in St. Mary’s Church, and the 
doctors argued, I forget what about, but Master Taylor says 
that of course the Genevans had the best of it; and the Queen 
spoke, too, in Latin, though she did not wish to, but my lord of 
Ely persuaded her to it; so you see she could not have learned it 
by heart, as some said. And she said she would give some great 
gift to the University; but Master Taylor says they are still wait- 
ing for it; but it must come soon, you see, because it is the 
Queen’s Grace who has promised it; but Master Taylor says he 
hopes she has forgotten it, but he laughs when I ask him what 
he means, and says it again.” 

“Who is this Master Taylor?” asked his father. 

“Oh! he is a Fellow of King’s,” said Anthony, “and he told 
me about the Provost too. The Provost is half a Papist, they 


28 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


say: he is very old now, and he has buried all the vessels and 
the vestments of the Chapel, they say, somewhere where no one 
knows; and he hopes the old religion will come back again some 
day; and then he will dig them up. But that is Papistry, and no 
one wants that at Cambridge. And others say that he is a Papist 
altogether, and has a priest in his house sometimes. But I do 
not think he can be a Papist, because he was there when the 
Queen was there, bowing and smiling, says Master Taylor; and 
looking on the Queen so earnestly, as if he worshipped her, says 
Master Taylor, all the time the Chancellor was talking to her 
before they went into the chapel for the Te Deum. But they 
wished they had kept some of the things, like the Provost, says 
Master Taylor, because they were much put to it when her Grace 
came down for stuffs to cover the communion-tables and for sur- 
plices, for Cecil said she would be displeased if all was bare 
and poor. Is it true, father,” asked Anthony, breaking off, “that 
the Queen likes popish things, and has a crucifix and tapers on 
the table in her chapel?” 

‘“‘Ah! my son,” said Mr. Norris, smiling, “you must ask one 
who knows. And what else happened?” 

“Well,” said Anthony, “the best is to come. They had plays, 
you know, the Dido, and one called Ezechias, before the Queen. 
Oh! and she sent for one of the boys, they say, and—and kissed 
him, they say; but I think that cannot be true.” 

‘Well, my son, go on!” 

“Oh! and some of them thought they would have one more 
play before she went; but she had to go a long journey and left 
Cambridge before they could do it, and they went after her to— 
to Audley End, I think, where she was to sleep, and a room was 
made ready, and when all was prepared, though her Grace was 
tired, she came in to see the play. Master Taylor was not there; 
he said he would rather not act in that one; but he had the 
story from one who acted, but no one knew, he said, who wrote 
the play. Well, when the Queen’s Grace was seated, the actors 
came on, dressed, father, dressed’”—and Anthony’s eyes began to 
shine with amusement—“as the Catholic Bishops in the Tower. 
There was Bonner in his popish vestments—some they had from 
St. Benet’s—with a staff and his tall mitre, and a lamb in his 
arms; and he stared at it and gnashed his teeth at it as he 
tramped in; and then came the others, all like bishops, all in 
mass-vestments or cloth cut to look like them; and then at the 
end came a dog that belonged to one of them, well-trained, with 


LONDON TOWN 29 


the Popish Host in his mouth, made large and white, so that all 
could see what it was. Well, they thought the Queen would 
laugh as she was a Protestant, but no one laughed; some one 
said something in the room, and a lady cried out; and then the 
Queen stood up and scolded the actors, and trounced them well 
with her tongue, she did, and said she was displeased; and then 
out she went with all her ladies and gentlemen after her, except 
one or two servants who put out the lights at once without wait- 
ing, and broke Bonner’s staff, and took away the Host, and kicked 
the dog, and told them to be off, for the Queen’s Grace was 
angered with them; and so they had to get back to Cambridge 
in the dark as well as they might.” | 

“Oh! the poor boys!” said Mrs. Marrett, “and they did it all 
to please her Grace, too.” 

“Ves,”’ said the Alderman, “but the Queen thought it enough, 
I dare say, to put the Bishops in prison, without allowing boys 
to make a mock of them and their faith before her.” 

“Ves,” said Anthony, “I thought that was it.” 

When the Alderman came in a day or two later with the news 
that Elizabeth was to come up from Nonsuch the next day, and 
to pass down Cheapside on her way to Greenwich, the excitement 
of Isabel and Anthony was indescribable. 

Cheapside was joyous to see, as the two, with their father 
behind them talking to a minister whose acquaintance he had 
made, sat at a first-floor window soon after midday, waiting to 
see the Queen go by. Many of the people had hung carpets or 
tapestries, some of taffetas and cloth-of-gold, out of their bal- 
conies and windows, and the very signs themselves,—fantastic 
ironwork, with here and there a grotesque beast rampant, or a 
bright painting, or an escutcheon;—with the gay, good-tempered 
crowds beneath and the strip of frosty blue sky, crossed by 
streamers from side to side, shining above the towering eaves 
and gables of the houses, all combined to make a scene so aston- 
ishing that it seemed scarcely real to these country children. 

It was yet some time before she was expected; but there came 
a sudden stir from the upper end of Cheapside, and then a burst 
of cheering and laughter and hoots. Anthony leaned out to see 
what was coming, but could make out nothing beyond the head 
of a horse, and a man driving it from the seat of a cart, coming 
slowly down the centre of the road. The laughter and noise 
grew louder as the crowds swayed this way and that to make 
room, Presently it was seen that behind the cart a little space 


30 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


was kept, and Anthony made out the grey head of a man at 
the tail of the cart, and the face of another a little way behind; 
then at last, as the cart jolted past, the two children saw a man 
stripped to the waist, his hands tied before him to the cart, his 
back one red wound; while a hangman walked behind whirling 
his thonged whip about his head, and bringing it down now and 
again on the old man’s back. At each lash the prisoner shrank 
away, and turned his piteous face, drawn with pain, from side to 
side, while the crowd yelled and laughed. 

“What’s it for, what’s it for?” inquired Anthony, eager and 
interested. 

A boy leaning from the next window answered him. 

“He said Jesus Christ was not in heaven.” 

At that moment a humorist near the cart began to cry out: 

“Way for the King’s Grace! Way for the King’s Grace!” and 
the crowd took the idea instantly: a few men walking with the 
cart formed lines like gentlemen ushers, uncovering their heads 
and all crying out the same words; and one eager player tried to 
walk backwards until he was tripped up. And so the dismal 
pageant of this red-robed king of anguish went by; and the hoots - 
and shouts of his heralds died away. Anthony turned to Isabel, 
exultant and interested. 

“Why, Isabel,” he said, ‘“‘you look all white. What is it? You 
know he’s a blasphemer.”’ 

“I know, I know,”’ said Isabel. 

Then suddenly, far away, came the sound of trumpets, and 
gusts of distant cheering, like the sound of the wind in thick 
foliage. Anthony leaned out again, and an excited murmur broke 
out once more, as all faces turned westwards. A moment more, 
and Anthony caught a flash of colour from the corner near St. 
Paul’s Churchyard; then the shrill trumpets sounded nearer, and 
the cheering broke out at the end, and ran down the street like 
a wave of noise. From every window faces leaned out; even on 
the roofs and between the high chimney pots were swaying figures. 

Masses of colour now began to emerge, with the glitter of steel, 
round the bend of the street, where the winter sunshine fell; and 
the crowds began to surge back, and against the houses. At first 
Anthony could make out little but two moving rippling lines of 
light, coming parallel, pressing the people back; and it was not 
until they had come opposite the window that he could make out 
the steel caps and pikeheads of men in half-armour, who, march- 
ing two and two with a space between them, led the procession 


LONDON TOWN 31 


and kept the crowds back. There they went, with immovable 
disciplined faces, grounding their -pike-butts sharply now and 
again, caring nothing for the yelp of pain that sometimes followed. 
Immediately behind them came the aldermen in scarlet, on black 
horses that tossed their jingling heads as they walked. Anthony 
watched the solemn faces of the old gentlemen with a good deal 
of awe, and presently made out his friend, Mr. Marrett, who rode 
near the end, but who was too much engrossed in the management 
of his horse to notice the two children who cried out to him and 
waved. The serjeants-of-arms followed, and then two lines again 
of gentlemen-pensioners walking, bare-headed, carrying wands, 
in short cloaks and elaborate ruffs. But the lad saw little of them, 
for the splendour of the lords and knights that followed eclipsed 
them altogether. The knights came first, in steel armour with 
raised vizors, the horses too in armour, moving sedately with a 
splendid clash of steel, and twinkling fiercely in the sunshine; 
and then, after them (and Anthony drew his breath swiftly) 
came a blaze of colour and jewels as the great lords in their 
cloaks and feathered caps, metal-clasped and gemmed, came on 
their splendid long-maned horses; the crowd yelled and cheered, 
and great names were tossed to and fro, as the owners passed on, 
each talking to his fellow as if unconscious of the tumult and 
even of the presence of these shouting thousands. The cry of 
the trumpets rang out again high and shattering, as the trumpeters 
and heralds in rich coat-armour came next; and Anthony looked 
a moment, fascinated by the lions and lilies, and the brightness of 
the eloquent horns, before he turned his head to see the Lord 
Mayor himself, mounted on a great stately white horse, that 
needed no management, while his rider bore on a cushion the 
sceptre. Ah! she was coming near now. The two saw nothing 
of the next rider who carried aloft the glittering Sword of State, 
for their eyes were fixed on the six plumed heads of the horses, 
with grooms and footmen in cassock-coats and venetian hose, and 
the great gilt open carriage behind that swayed and jolted over 
the cobbles. She was here; she was here; and the loyal crowds 
yelled and surged to and fro, and cloths and handkerchiefs flapped 
and waved, and caps tossed up and down, as at last the great 
creaking carriage came under the window. 

This is what they saw in it. 

A figure of extraordinary dignity, sitting upright and stiff like 
a pagan idol, dressed in a magnificent and fantastic purple robe, 
with a great double ruff, like a huge collar, behind her head; a 


32 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


long taper waist, voluminous skirts spread all over the cushions, 
embroidered with curious figures and creatures. Over her shoul- 
ders, but opened in front so as to show the ropes of pearls and 
the blaze of jewels on the stomacher, was a purple velvet mantle 
lined with ermine, with pearls sewn into it here and there. Set 
far back on her head, over a pile of reddish-yellow hair drawn 
tightly back from the forehead, was a hat with curled brims, 
elaborately embroidered, with the jewelled outline of a little 
crown in front, and a high feather topping all. 

And her face—a long oval, pale and transparent in complexion, 
with a sharp chin, and a high forehead; high arched eyebrows, 
auburn, but a little darker than her hair; her mouth was small, 
rising at the corners, with thin curved lips tightly shut; and her 
eyes, which were clear in colour, looked incessantly about her 
with great liveliness and good-humour. 

There was something overpowering to these two children who 
looked, too awed to cheer, in this formidable figure in the barbaric 
dress, the gorgeous climax of a gorgeous pageant. Apart from 
the physical splendour, this solitary glittering creature represented 
so much—it was the incarnate genius of the laughing, brutal, 
wanton English nation, that sat here in the gilded carriage and 
smiled and glanced with tight lips and clear eyes. She was like 
some emblematic giant, moving in a processional car, as fantastic 
as itself, dominant and serene above the heads of the maddened 
crowds, on to some mysterious destiny. A sovereign, however 
personally inglorious, has such a dignity in some measure; and 
Elizabeth added to this an exceptional majesty of her own. 
Henry would not have been ashamed for this daughter of his. 
What wonder then that these crowds were delirious with love 
and loyalty and an exultant fear, as this overwhelming person- 
ality went by:—this pale-faced tranquil virgin Queen, passionate, 
wanton, outspoken and absolutely fearless; with a sufficient re- 
serve of will to be fickle without weakness; and sufficient grasp 
of her aims to be indifferent to her policy: untouched by vital 
religion; financially shrewd; inordinately vain. And when this 
strange dominant creature, royal by character as by birth, as 
strong as her father and as wanton as her mother, sat in ermine 
and velvet and pearls in a royal carriage, with shrewd-faced wits, 
and bright-eyed lovers, and solemn statesmen, and great nobles, 
vacuous and gallant, glittering and jingling before her; and troops 
of tall ladies in ruff and crimson mantle riding on white horses 
behind; and when the fanfares went shattering down the street, 


LONDON TOWN 33 


vibrating through the continuous roar of the crowd and the shrill 
cries of children and the mellow thunder of church-bells rocking 
overhead, and the endless tramp of a thousand feet below; 
and when the whole was framed in this fantastic twisted street, 
blazing with tapestries and arched with gables and banners, all 
bathed in glory by the clear frosty sunshine—it is little wonder 
that for a few minutes at least this country boy felt that here 
at last was the incarnation of his dreams; and that his heart 
should exult, with an enthusiasm he could not interpret, for the 
cause of a people who could produce such a queen, and of a 
queen who could rule such a people; and that his imagination 
should be fired with a sudden sense that these were causes for 
which the sacrifice of a life would be counted cheap, if they 
might thereby be furthered. 

Yet, in this very moment, by one of those mysterious sugges- 
tions that rise from the depth of a soul, the image sprang into 
his mind, and poised itself there for an instant, of the grey- 
haired man who had passed half an hour ago, sobbing and shrink- 
ing at the cart’s tail. 


CHAPTER IV 
MARY CORBET 


THE spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully 
at Great Keynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel 
they were significant months. In spite of herself and of the 
word of warning from her father, her relations with Hubert con- 
tinued to draw closer. For one thing, he had been the first to 
awaken in her the consciousness that she was lovable in herself, 
and the mirror that first tells that to a soul always has something 
of the glow of the discovery resting upon it. 

Then again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange 
charm. When Isabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often 
had to catch the swinging gate as he rode through after opening 
it, and do such little things for herself; but when Hubert was 
with them there was nothing of that kind. 

And, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most 
subtle element of all. There was no doubt that Hubert’s relations 
with his fiery old father became strained sometimes, and it was 
extraordinarily sweet to Isabel to be made a confidant. And yet 
Hubert never went beyond a certain point; his wooing was very 
skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of her uneasiness almost 
before she was conscious of it herself, and to relapse in a moment 
into frank and brotherly relations again. 

He came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, 
and found her alone in the hall: and broke out immediately, 
striding up and down as she sat and watched him. 

“YT cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us 
all Lent; he is always interfering in my affairs. And he has no 
charity. I know I am a Catholic and that; but when he and 
my father, talk against the Protestants, Mistress Isabel, I cannot 
bear it. They were abusing the Queen to-night—at least,’”’ he 
added, for he had no intention to exaggerate, “they were saying 
she was a true daughter of her father; and sneers of that kind. 
And I am an Englishman, and her subject; and I said so; and 
Mr. Bailey snapped out, ‘And you are also a Catholic, my son,’ 
and then—and then I lost my temper, and said that the Catholic 


34 


MARY CORBET 35 


religion seemed no better than any other for the good it did 
people; and that the Rector and Mr. Norris seemed to me as 
good men as any one; and of course I meant him and he knew 
it; and then he told me, before the servants, that I was speaking 
against the faith; and then I said I would sooner speak against 
the faith than against good Christians; and then he flamed up 
scarlet, and I saw I had touched him; and then my father got 
scarlet too, and my mother looked at me, and my father told me 
to leave the table for an insolent puppy; and I knocked over my 
chair and stamped out—and oh! Mistress Isabel, I came straight 
here.” 

And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the 
back, and dropped his head on to them. 

It would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been 
very clever indeed, to have made any speech which would have 
touched Isabel more than this. There was the subtle suggestion 
that he had defended the Protestants for her sake; and there 
was the open defence of her father, and defiance of the priests 
whom she feared and distrusted; there was a warm generosity 
and frankness running through it all; and lastly, there was the 
sweet flattering implication that he had come to her to be under- 
stood and quieted and comforted. 

Then, when she tried to show her disapproval of his quick 
temper, and had succeeded in showing a poorly disguised sym- 
pathy instead, he had flung away again, saying that she had: 
brought him to his senses as usual, and that he would ask the 
priest’s pardon for his insolence at once; and Isabel was left 
standing and looking at the fire, fearing that she was being wooed, 
and yet not certain, though she loved it. And then, too, there 
was the secret hope that it might be through her that he might 
escape from his superstitions, and—and then—and she closed 
her eyes and bit her lip for joy and terror. 

She did not know that a few weeks later Hubert had an inter- 
view with his father, of which she was the occasion. Lady Max- 
well had gone to her husband after a good deal of thought and 
anxiety, and told him what she feared; asking him to say a word 
to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had been startled and furious. It was 
all the lad’s conceit, he said; he had no real heart at all; he only 
flattered his vanity in making love; he had no love for his parents 
or his faith, and so on. She took his old hand in her own and 
held it while she spoke. | 

“Sweetheart,”’ she said, “how old were you when you used to 


36 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


come riding to Overfield? I forget.” And there came peace 
into his angry, puzzled old eyes, and a gleam of humour. 

“Mistress,” he said, “you have not forgotten.” For he had 
been just eighteen, too. And he took her face in his hands del- 
icately, and kissed her on the lips. 

“Well, well,” he said, “it is hard on the boy; but it must 
not go on. Send him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him.” 

But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert 
was irritable and shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion 
again. 

“After all,” he burst out,-“‘there are plenty of good men who 
have left the faith. It brings nothing but misery.” 

Sir Nicholas’ hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench 
themselves; but he remembered the lad was in love. 

“My son,” he said, ‘““you do not know what you say.” 

“Tt know well enough,” said Hubert, with his foot tapping 
sharply. “I say that the Catholic religion is a religion of misery 
and death everywhere. Look at the Low Countries, sir.” 

“T cannot speak of that,” said his father; and his son sneered 
visibly; “you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have 
a right to say, that to threaten me like that is the act of a— 
is not worthy of my son. My dear boy,” he said, coming nearer, 
“you are angry; and, God forgive me! so am I; but I promised 
your mother,” and again he broke off, “and we cannot go on 
with this now. Come again this evening.” 

Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak 
mantelpiece; and there was silence. 

“Father,” he said at last, turning round, “I ask your pardon.” 

Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with 
tears, and his mouth twitching, and held out his hand, which 
Hubert took. 

“And I was a coward to speak like that—but, but—I will 
try,” went on the boy. ‘And I promise to say nothing to her 
yet, at any rate. Will that do? And I will go away for a 
while.” 

The father threw his arms round him. 

As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and 
meadows with wealth, the little Italian garden to the south- 
west of the Hall was where my lady spent most of the day. 
Here she would cause chairs to be brought out for Mistress 
Margaret and herself, and a small selection of devotional books, 
an orange leather volume powdered all over with pierced hearts, 


MARY CORBET 37 


filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another book called 
Le Chappellet de Jésus, while from her girdle beside her pocket- 
mirror there always hung an olive-coloured “Hours of the 
Blessed Virgin,” fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged 
from the binding. Here the two old sisters would sit, in the 
shadow of the yew hedge, taking it by turns to read and embroider 
or talking a little now and then in quiet voices, with long silences 
broken only by the hum of insects in the hot air, or the quick 
flight of a bird in the tall trees behind the hedge. 

Here too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and 
sat and talked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the 
two old ladies, and envied their peace. Hubert had gone, as he 
had promised his father, on a long visit, and was not expected 
home until at least the autumn. 

“James will be here to-morrow,” said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, 
one hot afternoon. Isabel looked up in surprise; he had not been 
at home for so long; but the thought of his. coming was very 
pleasant to her. 

“And Mary Corbet, too,’’ went on the old lady, ‘“‘will be here 
to-morrow or the day after.” 

Isabel asked who this was. 

“She is one of the Queen’s ladies, my dear; and a great talker.” 

“She is very amusing sometimes,” said Mistress Margaret’s 
clear little voice. 

“And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?” said Isabel. 

“Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have 
known Mary for years.” 

‘“‘And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?” 

“Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her.” 

When Isabel went up again to the Hall in the evening, a couple 
of days later, she found Mr. James sitting with his mother and 
aunt in the same part of the garden. Mr. James, who rose as 
she came through the yew archway, and stood waiting to greet 
her, was a tall, pleasant, brown-faced man. Isabel noticed as 
she came up his strong friendly face, that had something of 
Hubert’s look in it, and felt an immediate sense of relief from 
her timidity at meeting this man, whose name, it was said, was 
beginning to be known among the poets, and about whom the 
still more formidable fact was being repeated, that he was a 
rising man at Court and had attracted the Queen’s favour. 

As they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong 
delicate hand in its snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly 


38 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


dressed, as it lay on his knee; and again thought of Hubert’s 
browner and squarer hand. 

“We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the 
new theatres. I was at the Blackfriar’s only last week. Ah! 
and I met Buxton there,” he went on, turning to his mother. 

“Dear Henry,” said Lady Maxwell. “He told me when I 
last saw him that he could never go to London again; his religion 
was too expensive, he said.” 

Mr. James’ white teeth glimmered in a smile. 

“He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of 
paying the fine. It would be cheaper, he thought.” 

“T hear her Grace loves the play,” said Mistress Margaret. 

“Indeed she does. I saw her at Whitehall the other day, 
when the children of the Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped 
and called out with delight. But Mistress Corbet can tell you 
more than I can— Ah! here she is.” 

Isabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly 
along the terrace and down the steps that led from the house. 
Miss Corbet was dressed with what she herself would have said 
was a milkmaid’s plainness; but Isabel looked in astonishment 
at the elaborate ruff and wings of muslin and lace, the shining 
peacock gown, the high-piled coils of black hair, and the twin- 
kling buckled feet. She had a lively bright face, a little pale, 
with a high forehead, and black arched brows and dancing eyes, 
and a little scarlet mouth that twitched humorously now and 
then after speaking. She rustled up, flicking her handkerchief, 
and exclaiming against the heat. Isabel was presented to her; 
she sat down on a settle Mr. James drew forward for her, with 
the handkerchief still whisking at the flies. 

“J am ashamed to come out like this,” she began. ‘Mistress 
Plesse would break her heart at my lace. You country ladies 
have far more sense. I am the slave of my habits. What were 
you talking of, that you look so gravely at me?” 

Mr. James told her. 

“Oh, her Grace!” said Miss Corbet. ‘Indeed, I think some- 
times she is never off the stage herself. Ah! and what art and 
passion she shows too!” 

“We are all loyal subjects here,” said Mr. James; “tell us 
what you mean.” 

“f mean what I say,” she said. ‘‘Never was there one who 
loved play-acting more and to occupy the centre of the stage, 
too. And the throne too, if there be one,” she added. 


MARY CORBET 39 


Miss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever 
looked directly at any one, but up or down, or even shut her 
eyes and tilted her face forward while she talked; and all the 
while she kept an incessant movement of her lips or handker- 
chief, or tapped her foot, or shifted her position a little. Isabel 
thought she had never seen any one so restless. 

Then she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so 
startlingly frank that Lady Maxwell again and again looked 
up as if to interrupt; but she always came off the thin ice in 
time. It was abominable gossip; but she talked with such a 
genial air of loyal good humour, that it was very difficult to 
find fault. Miss Corbet was plainly accustomed to act as Court 
Circular, or even as lecturer and show-woman on the most pop- 
ular subject in England. 

“But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last 
January; you would have sworn her really angry. This was 
how it fell out. I was in the anteroom one day, waiting for 
her Grace, when I thought I heard her call. So I tapped; I got 
no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so I entered. And 
there was her Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair by herself, 
with the Secretary—poor rat—white-faced at the table, writing 
what she bade him, and looking at her, quick and side-ways, 
like a child at a lifted rod; and there was her Grace: she had 
kicked her stool over, and one shoe had fallen; and she was 
striking the arm of her chair as she spoke, and her rings rapped 
as loud as a drunken watchman. And her face was all white, 
and her eyes glaring’”—and Mary began to glare and raise her 
voice too—‘‘and she was crying out, ‘By God’s Son, sir, I will 
have them hanged. Tell the > (but I dare not say what 
she called my Lord Sussex, but few would have recognised him 
from what she said)—“‘tell him that I will have my will done. 
The—’ (and she called the rebels a name I dare not tell you)— 
‘these men have risen against me these two months; and yet they 
are not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that their chil- 
dren may see what treason brings.’ All this while I was standing 
at the open door, thinking she had called me; but she was as 
if she saw nought but the gallows and hell-fire beyond; and I 
spoke softly to her, asking what she wished; and she sprang 
up and ran at me, and struck me—yes; again and again across 
the face with her open hand, rings and all—and I ran out in 
tears. Yes,” went on Miss Corbet in a moment, dropping her 
voice, and pensively looking up at nothing, “yes; you would 





40 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


have said she was really angry, so quick and natural were her 
movements and so loud her voice.” 

Mr. James’ face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady 
Maxwell seemed on the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet 
began again: 

“And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You 
would have said that our Artemis repented of her coldness; if 
you had not known it was but play-acting; or let us say perhaps 
a rehearsal—if you had seen what I once saw at Nonsuch. It 
was on a summer evening, and we were all on the bowling green, 
and her Grace was within doors, not to be disturbed. My Lora 
Leicester was to come, but we thought had not arrived. Then 
I had occasion to go to my room to get a little book I had prom- 
ised to show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, I ran through 
into the court, and there stood a horse, his legs apart, all steam- 
ing and blowing. Some courier, said I to myself, and never 
thought to look at the trappings; and so I ran upstairs to go to 
the gallery, across which lay my chamber; and I came up, and 
just began to push open the door, when I heard her Grace’s 
voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared 
not close the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be 
heard. And there were two walking within the gallery, her Grace 
and my lord, and my lord was all disordered with hard riding, 
and nearly as spent as his poor beast below. And her Grace 
had her arm round his neck, for I saw them through the chink; 
and she fondled and pinched his ear, and said over and over 
again, ‘Robin, my sweet Robin,’ and then crooned and moaned 
at him; and he, whenever he could fetch a breath—and oh! I 
promise you he did blow—murmured back, calling her his queen, 
which indeed she was, and his sweetheart and his moon and his 
star—which she was not: but ’twas all in the play. Well, again 
by the favour of God, they did not see how the door was open 
and I crouched behind it, for the sun was shining level through 
the west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me 
as I ran upstairs and opened the door, He only knows—unless 
my lord was too sorely out of breath and her Grace too intent 
upon her play-acting. Well, I promise you, the acting was so 
good—he so spent and she so tender—that I nearly cried out 
Brava as I saw them; but that I remembered in time ’twas meant 
to be a private rehearsal. But I have seen her Grace act near 
as passionate a part before the whole company sometimes.” 

The two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this 


MARY CORBET 41 


talk; and as for Isabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary 
Corbet glanced quickly at their faces when she had done, and 
turned a little in her seat. 

“Ah! look at that peacock,” she cried out, as a stately bird 
stepped delicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a 
little way off, and stood balancing himself. ‘‘He is loyal too, 
and has come to hear news of his Queen.” 

“He has come to see his cousin from town,” said Mr. James, 
looking at Miss Corbet’s glowing dress, “and to learn of the 
London fashions.” 

Mary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked 
at her with his head lowered, as he took a high step or two, 
and then paused again, with his burnished breast swaying a little 
from side to side. 

“fe invites you to a dance,” went on Mr. James gravely, “‘a 
Ppavane.”’ 

Miss Corbet sat down again. 

“T dare not dance a pavane,” she said, ‘‘with a real peacock.” 

“Surely,” said Mr. James, with a courtier’s air, “you are too 
pitiful for him, and too pitiless for us.” 

“Y dare not,” she said again, ‘‘for he never ceases to practise.” 

“In hope,” said Mr. James, “that one day you will dance it 
with him.” 

And then the two went off into the splendid fantastic nonsense 
that the wits loved to talk; that grotesque, exaggerated phrasing 
made fashionable by Lyly. It was like a kind of impromptu 
sword-exercise in an assault of arms, where the rhythm and the 
flash and the graceful turns are of more importance than the 
actual thrusts received. The two old ladies embroidered on in 
silence, but their eyes twinkled, and little wrinkles flickered about 
the corners of their lips. But poor Isabel sat bewildered. It 
was so elaborate, so empty; she had almost said, so wicked to 
take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance this wild fan- 
dango; and as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of 
sparks and gleams on the shoulders of absurdity, and was itself 
surmounted; and the names of heathen gods and nymphs and 
demi-gods and loose-living classical women whisked across the 
stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until the whole mad 
erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gems 
of allusions and phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright and be- 
wildering at the moment, but leaving a barren darkness and 
dazzled eyes behind—the poor little Puritan country child almost 


42 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


cried with perplexity and annoyance. If the two talkers had 
looked at one another and burst into laughter at the end, she 
would have understood it to be a joke, though, to her mind, 
but a poor one. But when they had ended, and Mary Corbet 
had risen and then swept down to the ground in a great silent 
curtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, had sol- 
emnly bowed with his hand on his heart, and his heels together 
like a Monsieur, and then she had rustled off in her peacock 
dress to the house, with her muslin wings bulging behind her; 
and no one had laughed or reproved or explained; it was almost 
too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwell with an appeal 
in her eyes. : 

Mr. James saw it and his face relaxed. 

“You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel,” he 
said in his kindly way. ‘“‘It is all part of the game.” 

“The game?” she said piteously. 

“Yes,” said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, “the 
game of playing at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs 
and high-stepping.” 

Mr. James’ face again broke into his silent laugh. 

“You are acid, dear aunt,” he said. 

“But ”” began Isabel again. 

“But it is wrong, you think,” he interrupted, ‘‘to talk such 
nonsense. Well, Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right.” 
And the dancing light in his eyes went out. 

“No, no, no,” she cried, distressed. “I did not mean that. 
Only I did not understand.” 

“T know, I know; and please God you never will. And he 
looked at her with such a tender gravity that her eyes fell. 

“Tsabel is right,’”’ went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly 
sweet old voice; ‘‘and you know it, my nephew. It is very well 
as a pastime, but some folks make it their business; and that is 
nothing less than fooling with the gifts of the good God.” 

“Well, aunt Margaret,” said James softly, ‘‘I shall not have 
much more of it. You need not fear for me.” 

Lady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and 
down again. He made an almost imperceptible movement with 
his head, Mistress Margaret looked across at him with her tender 
eyes beaming love and sorrow; and there fell a little eloquent 
silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from one to the other, and 
wondered what it was all about. 

Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was 





MARY CORBET 43 


when travelling meant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer 
understanding her. She accepted her, as simple clean souls so 
often have to accept riddles in this world, as a mystery that no 
doubt had a significance, though she could not recognise it. So 
she did not exactly dislike or distrust her, but regarded her 
silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say a small 
fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his 
strange hot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make 
endearing sounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary 
Corbet. She had scarcely ever before been thrown so close to 
any one so serenely pure. She would come down to the Dower 
House again and again at all hours of the day, rustling along 
in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairs parlour, 
or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways and 
ideas; and she would look at her silently for a minute or two 
together; and then suddenly laugh and kiss her—Isabel’s trans- 
parency was almost as great a riddle to her as her own obscurity 
to Isabel. And sometimes she would throw herself on Isabel’s 
bed, and lie there with her arms behind her head, to the deplorable 
tuin of her ruff, with her buckled feet twitching and tapping; 
and go on and on talking like a running stream in the sun that 
runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, and accomplishes noth- 
ing. But she was more respectful to Isabel’s simplicity than at 
first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in a 
manner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court 
and the fair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous con- 
versations and jests and the corrupt souls that engaged in them. 

She was immensely interested in Isabel’s religion. 

“Tell me, child,” she said one day, “I cannot understand such 
a religion. It is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. 
All that the Protestants do there is to hear sermons—it is all so 
dismal and noisy. But here, with you, you have a proper soul. 
It seems to me that you are like a little herb-garden, very prim 
and plain, but living and wholesome and pleasant to walk in at 
sunset. And these Protestants that I know are more like a paved 
court at noon—all hot and hard and glaring. They give me the 
headache. Tell me all about it.” 

Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. 
Her definitions were as barren as any others. 

“T see,” said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and 
looking at Isabel. ‘It is not your religion but you; your religion 
is as dull as all the rest. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and 


44 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the wilderness blossoms where you set your feet. There is noth- 
ing to blush about. It’s no credit to you, but to God.” 

Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her 
soul was being dragged out of a cool thicket from the green 
shadow and the flowers, and set, stripped, in the high road. 

Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly. 

“You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if 
you knew what the Religion was. But your father, good man, 
has never understood it himself; and so you don’t know it either. 
What you think about us, my dear, is as much like the truth 
as—as—lI am like a saint, or you like a sinner. I'll be bound 
now that you think us all idolaters!” 

Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort. 

“There, now, what did I say? Why haven’t either of those 
two old nuns at the Hall taught you any better?” 

‘‘They—they don’t talk to me about religion.” 

“Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb ~ 
from the wolves. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must 
confess that they have the decency to wear sheep’s clothing, and 
that the disguise is excellent.” 

And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an 
immense deal about what the Catholics really believed—far more 
than she had ever learnt in all her life before from the ladies at 
the Hall, who were unwilling to teach her, and her father, who 
was unable. 

About half-way through Miss Corbet’s visit, Anthony came 
home. At first he pronounced against her inexorably, dismissing 
her as nonsense, and as a fine lady—terms to him interchange- 
able. Then his condemnation began to falter, then ceased; then 
acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded. For Miss Corbet 
asked his advice about the dogs, and how to get that wonderful 
gloss on their coats that his had; and she asked his help, too, 
once or twice and praised his skill, and once asked to feel his 
muscle. 

And then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. 
She was not in the least afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious 
head in spite of the glare of that steady yellow eye; and yet 
all with an air of trusting to Anthony’s protection. She tore 
her silk stocking across the instep in a bramble and scratched 
her foot, without even drawing attention to it, as she followed 
him along one of his short cuts through the copse; and it was 
only by chance that she saw it. And then this gallant girl, so 


MARY CORBET 45 


simple and ignorant as she seemed out of doors, was like a splen- 
did queen indoors, and was able to hold her own, or rather to 
soar above all these elders who were so apt to look over Anthony’s 
head on grave occasions; and they all had to listen while she 
talked. In fact, the first time he saw her at the Hall in all her 
splendour, he could hardly realise it was the same girl, till she 
laughed up at him, and nodded, and said how much she had 
enjoyed the afternoon’s stroll, and how much she would have to 
tell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her 
poses and so skilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor 
boy, that in a very few days, after he had pronounced her to be 
nonsense, Anthony was at her feet, hopelessly fascinated by the 
combination of the glitter and friendliness of this fine Court 
lady. To do her justice, she would have behaved exactly the 
same to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as a peacock dances 
and postures and vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and had no 
more deliberate intention of giving pain to anybody than a 
nightshade has of poisoning a silly sheep. 

The sublime conceit of a boy of fifteen made him of course 
think that she had detected in him a nobility that others over- 
looked, and so Anthony began a gorgeous course of day-dream- 
ing, in which he moved as a kind of king, worshipped and rev- 
erenced by this splendid creature, who after a disillusionment 
from the empty vanities of a Court life and a Queen’s favour, 
found at last the lord of her heart in a simple manly young coun- 
tryman. These dreams, however, he had the grace and modesty 
to keep wholly to himself. 

Mary came down one day and found the two in the garden 
together. 

“Come, my child,” she said, “‘and you too, Master Anthony, 
if you can spare time to escort us; and take me to the church. 
I want to see it.” 

“The church!” said Isabel, “‘that is locked: we must go to 
the Rectory.” 

“Tocked!” exclaimed Mary, “and is that part of the blessed 
Reformation? Well, come, at any rate.” 

They all went across to the village and down the green towards 
the Rectory, whose garden adjoined the churchyard on the south 
side of the church. Anthony walked with something of an air 
in front of the two ladies. Isabel told her as they went about 
the Rector and his views. Mary nodded and smiled and seemed 
to understand. 


46 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“We will tap at the window,” said Anthony, “‘it is the quickest 
way.” 

They came up towards the study window that looked on to 
the drive; when Anthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled 
and then laughed. 

“They are at it again,” he said. 

The next moment Mary was looking through the window too. 
The Rector was sitting in his chair opposite, a small dark, clean- 
shaven man, but his face was set with a look of distressed deter- 
mination, and his lower lip was sucked in; his eyes were fixed 
firmly on a tall, slender woman whose back was turned to the 
window and who seemed to be declaiming, with outstretched 
hand. The Rector suddenly saw the faces at the window. 

‘We seem to be interrupting,” said Mary coolly, as she turned 
away. : 


CHAPTER V 
A RIDER FROM LONDON 


“Wer will walk on, Master Anthony,” said Mistress Corbet. 
“Will you bring the keys when the Rector and his lady have 
done?” 

She spoke with a vehement bitterness that made Isabel look 
at her in amazement, as the two walked on by the private path 
to the churchyard gate. Mary’s face was set in a kind of fury, 
and she went forward with her chin thrust disdainfully out, 
biting her lip. Isabel said nothing. 

As they reached the gate they heard steps behind them; and 
turning saw the minister and Anthony hastening together . Mr. 
Dent was in his cassock and gown and square cap, and carried 
the keys. His little scholarly face, with a sharp curved nose like 
a beak, and dark eyes set rather too close together, was 
not unlike a bird’s; and a way he had of sudden sharp movements 
of his head increased the likeness. Mary looked at him with 
scarcely veiled contempt. He glanced at her sharply and uneasily. 

“Mistress Mary Corbet?” he said, interrogatively. 

Mary bowed to him. 

“May we see the church, sir; your church, I should say per- 
haps; that is, if we are not disturbing you.” 

Mr. Dent made a polite inclination, and opened the gate for - 
them to go through. Then Mary changed her tactics; and a 
genial, good-humoured look came over her face; but Isabel, who 
glanced at her now and again as they went round to the porch 
at the west-end, still felt uneasy. 

As the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed 
him with a pleased smile. 

“Why you look quite like a priest,” she said. ‘“‘Do your bishops, 
or whatever you call them, allow that dress? I thought you 
had done away with it all.” 

Mr. Dent looked at her, but seeing nothing but geniality and 
interest in her face, explained elaborately in the porch that 
he was a Catholic priest, practically; though the word “minister” 

47 


48 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


was more commonly used; and that it was the old Church still, 
only cleansed from superstitions. Mary shook her head at him 
cheerfully, smiling like a happy, puzzled child. 

“It is all too difficult for me,” she said. “It cannot be the same 
Church, or why should we poor Catholics be so much abused 
and persecuted? Besides, what of the Pope?” 

Mr. Dent explained that the Pope was one of the superstitions 
in question. 

“Ah! I see you are too sharp for me,” said Mary, beaming 
at him. 

Then they entered the church; and Mary began immediately 
on a running comment. 

“How sad that little niche looks,” she said. ‘I suppose Our 
Lady is in pieces somewhere on a dunghill. Surely, father—I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Dent—it cannot be the same religion if you 
have knocked Our Lady to pieces. But then I suppose you 
would say that she was a superstition, too. And where is the 
old altar? Is that broken, too? And is that a superstition, too? 
What a number there must have been! And the holy water, 
too, I see. But that looks like a very nice table up there you 
have instead. Ah! And I see you read the new prayers from 
a new desk outside the screen, and not from the priest’s stall. 
Was that a superstition too? And the mass vestments? Has 
your wife had any of them made up to be useful? The stoles 
are no good, I fear; but you could make charming stomachers 
out of the chasubles.”’ 

They were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent 
had to explain that the vestments had been burnt on the green. 

“Ah! yes; I see,” she said, “and do you wear a surplice, or do 
you not like them? I see the chancel roof is all broken—were 
there angels there once? I suppose so. But how strange to 
break them all! Unless they are superstitions, too? I thought 
Protestants believed in them; but I see I was wrong. What do 
you believe in, Mr. Dent?” she asked, turning large, bright, per- 
plexed eyes upon him for a moment: but she gave him no time 
to answer. 

‘““Ah!” she cried suddenly, and her voice rang with pain, “there 
is the altar-stone.”’ And she went down on her knees at the 
chancel entrance, bending down, it seemed, in an agony of devout 
sorrow and shame; and kissed with a gentle, lingering reverence 
the great slab with its five crosses, set in the ground at the de- 
struction of the altar to show there was no sanctity attached to it. 


A RIDER FROM LONDON 49 


She knelt there a moment or two, her lips moving, and her 
black eyes cast up at the great east window, cracked and flawed 
with stones and poles. The Puritan boy and girl looked at her 
with astonishment; they had not seen this side of her before. 

When she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with 
tears, and her voice was tender. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Dent,” she said, with a kind of pathetic 
dignity, putting out a slender be- ringed hand to him, ‘“‘but— 
but you know—for I think perhaps you have some sympathy 
for us poor Catholics—you know what all this means to me.” 

She went up into the chancel and looked about her in silence. 

“This was the piscina, Mistress Corbet,” said the Rector. 

She nodded her head regretfully, as at some relic of a dead 
friend; but said nothing. They came out’ again presently, and 
turned through the old iron gates into what had been the Maxwell 
chapel. The centre was occupied by an altar-tomb with Sir 
Nicholas’ parents lying in black stone upon it. Old Sir James 
held his right gauntlet in his left hand, and with his right hand 
held the right hand of his wife, which was crossed over to meet 
it; and the two steady faces gazed upon the disfigured roof. The 
altar, where a weekly requiem had:been said for them, was gone, 
and the footpace and piscina alone showed where it had stood. 

“This was a chantry, of course?” said Mistress Corbet. 

The Rector confessed that it had been so. 

“Ah!” she said mournfuly, “the altar is cast out and the priest 
gone; but—but—forgive me, sir, the money is here still? But 
then,” she added, ‘“‘I suppose the money is not a superstition.” 

When they reached the west entrance again she turned and 
looked up the aisle again. 

“And the Rood!” she said. ‘Even Christ crucified is gone. 
Then, in God’s name what is left?” And her eyes turned fiercely 
for a moment on the Rector. 

“At least courtesy and Christian kindness is left, madam,” 
he said sternly. 

She dropped her eyes and went out; and Isabel and Anthony 
followed, startled and ashamed. But Mary had recovered her- 
self as she came on to the head of the stone stairs, beside which 
the stump of the churchyard cross stood; standing there was the 
same tall, slender woman whose back they had seen through 
the window, and who now stood eyeing Mary with half-dropped 
lids. Her face was very white, with hard lines from nose to 
mouth, and thin, tightly compressed lips. Mary swept her with 


50 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


one look, and then passed on and down the steps, followed by 
Isabel and Anthony, as the Rector came out, locking the church 
door again behind him. 

As they went up the green, a shrill thin voice began to scold 
from over the churchyard wall, and they heard the lower, deter- 
mined voice of the minister answering. 

“They are at it again,” said Anthony, once more. 

“And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?” said 
Mistress Corbet, who seemed herself again now. 

“She is just a scold,” said the lad, “the village folk hate her.” 

“You seem not to love her,’’ said Mary, smiling. 

“Oh! Mistress Corbet, do you know what she said—’” and then 
he broke off, crimson-faced. 

“She is no friend to Catholics, I suppose,” said Mary, seem- 
ing to notice nothing. 

“She is always making mischief,” he went on eagerly. “The 
Rector would be well enough but for her. He is a good fellow, 
really.” 

“There, there,” said Mary, ‘and you think me a scold, too, 
I daresay. Well, you know I cannot bear to see these old 
churches—well, perhaps I was—” and then she broke off again, 
and was silent. 

The brother and sister presently turned back to the Dower 
House; and Mary went on, and through the Hall straight into 
the Italian garden where Mistress Margaret was sitting alone 
at her embroidery. 

“My sister has been called away by the housekeeper,” she 
explained, “‘but she will be back presently.” 

Mary sat down and took up the little tawny book that lay 
by Lady Maxwell’s chair, and began to turn it over idly while 
she talked. The old lady by her seemed to invite confidences. 

“T have been to see the church,” said Mary. ‘“‘The Rector 
showed it to me. What a beautiful place it must have been.” 

“Ah!” said Mistress Margaret, ‘I only came to live here a few 
years ago; so I have never known or loved it like my sister or 
her husband. They can hardly bear to enter it now. You know 
that Sir Nicholas’ father and grandfather are buried in the Max- 
well chapel; and it was his father who gave the furniture of the 
sanctuary, and the images of Our Lady and Saint Christopher 
that they burned on the green.” 

“It is terrible,” said Mary, a little absently, as she turned 
the pages of the book. 


A RIDER FROM LONDON 51 


Mistress Margaret looked up. 

“Ah! you have one of my books there,” she said. “It is a 
little collection I made.” 

Miss Corbet turned to the beginring, but only found a seal 
with an inscription. 

“But this belonged to a nunnery,” she said. 

“Yes,” said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly, ‘and I am a nun.” 

Mary looked at her in astonishment. 

“But, but,” she began. 

“Yes, Mistress Corbet; we were dispersed in ’38; some entered 
the other nunneries; and some went to France; but, at last, 
under circumstances that I need not trouble you with, I came 
here under spiritual direction, and have observed my obligations 
ever since.” 

“And have you always said your offices?” Mary asked 
astonished. 

“Yes, my dear; by the mercy of God I have never failed yet. 
I tell you this of course because you are one of us, and because 
you have a faithful heart.” Mistress Margaret lifted her great 
eyes and looked at Mary tenderly and penetratingly. 

“And this is one of your books?” she asked. 

“Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with 
me. My sister here is very fond of it.” 

Mary opened it again, and began to turn the pages. 

“Ts it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?” 

“Yes, my child; I continued writing in it ever since I first 
entered religion in 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a 
little,” and she smiled to herself. 

“Oh, but this is charming,” cried Mary, intent on the book. 

“Read it, my dear, aloud.” 

Mary read: 

“Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet, 
But fill my soul with spiritual travail, 
To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet; 
Thou my protection art in the battail. 
Set thou aside all other apparail; 
Let me in thee feel all my affiance. 


Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail. 
Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance.” 


Her voice trembled a little and ceased. 
“That is from some verses of Dom John Lydgate, I think,” 
said Mistress Margaret. 


52 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


‘Here is another,” said Mary in a moment or two. 


“Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be, 

All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee: 
That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me: 

And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity.” 


“The nuns of Hampole gave me that,” said Mistress Margaret. 
“Tt is by Richard Rolle, the hermit.” 

“Tell me a little,” said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down 
the book, “about the nunnery.” 

“Oh, my dear, that is too much to ask; but how happy we 
were. All was so still; it used to seem sometimes as if earth 
were just a dream; and that we walked in Paradise. Sometimes 
in the Greater Silence, when we had spoken no word nor heard 
one except in God’s praise, it used to seem that if we could but 
be silent a little longer, and a little more deeply, in our hearts 
as well, we should hear them talking in heaven, and the harps; 
and the Saviour’s soft footsteps. But it was not always like 
that.” 

“You mean,” said Mary softly, “that, that—” and she stopped. 

“Oh, it was hard sometimes; but not often. God is so good. 
But He used to allow such trouble and darkness and noise to be 
in our hearts sometimes—at least in mine. But then of course 
I was always very wicked. But sitting in the nymph-hay some- 
times on a day like this, as we were allowed to do; with just 
tall thin trees like poplars and cypresses round us: and the stream 
running through the long grass; and the birds, and the soft sky 
and the little breeze; and then peace in our hearts; and the 
love of the Saviour round us—it seemed, it seemed as if God 
had nothing more to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had 
no more space.” 

Mary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless 
movements were still for once; and her quick, vivacious face was 
tranquil and a little awed. 

“Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. 
Tell me more.” 

_ “Well, my dear, we thought too much about ourselves, I think; 

and too little about God and His poor children who were not so 
happy as we were; so then the troubles began; and they got 
nearer and nearer; and at last the Visitor came. He—he was my 
brother, my dear, which made it harder; but he made a good 
end. I will tell you his story another time. He took away our 


A RIDER FROM LONDON 53 


great crucifix and our jewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham used 
to wear on the Great Festivals; and left us. He turned me out, 
too; and another who asked to go, but I went back for a while. 
And then, my dear, although we offered everything; our cows 
and our orchard and our hens, and all we had, you know how it 
ended; and one morning in May old Mr. Wickham said mass 
for us quite early, before the sun was risen, for the last time; 
and,—and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and—and we 
were all crying too I think, and we all received communion to- 
gether for the last time—and,—and, then we all went away, 
leaving just old Dame Agnes to keep the house until the Com- 
missioner came. And oh, my dear, I don’t think the house ever 
looked so dear as it did that morning, just as the sun rose over 
the roofs, and we were passing out through the meadow door 
where we had sat so often, to where the horses were waiting to 
take us away.” 

Miss Corbet’s own eyes were full of tears as the old lady fin- 
ished; and she put out her white slender hand, which Mistress 
Torridon took and stroked for a moment. 

“Well,” she said, “I haven’t talked like this for a long while; 
but I knew you would understand. My dear, I have watched 
you while you have been here this time.” 

Mary Corbet smiled a little uneasily. 

“And you have found me out?” she answered smiling. 

“No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out—or at 
least He is drawing very near.” 

A slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary’s heart. This nun 
then was like all the rest, always trying to turn the whole world 
into monks and nuns by hints and pretended intuitions into the 
unseen. | 

“And you think I should be a nun too?” she asked, with just 
a shade of coolness in her tone. 

“T should suppose not,’ said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. 
“You do not seem to have a vocation for that, but I should think 
that Our Lord means you to serve Him where you are. Who 
knows what you may not accomplish?” 

This was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at 
all what she had expected. She did not know what to say; and 
took up the leather book again and began to turn over the pages. 
Mistress Margaret went on serenely with her embroidery, which 
she had neglected during the last sentence or two; and there 
was silence. 


Say | BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Tell me a little more about the nunnery,” said Mary in a 
minute or two, leaning back in her chair, with the book on her 
knees. 

‘Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far 
off now like a childhood. We talked very little; not at all until 
recreation; except by signs, and we used to spend a good deal 
of our time in embroidery. That is where I learnt this,” and she 
held out her work to Mary for a moment. It was an exquisite 
piece of needlework, representing a stag running open-mouthed 
through thickets of green twining branches that wrapped them- 
selves about his horns and feet. Mary had never seen anything 
quite like it before. 

“What does it mean?” she asked, loking at it curiously. 

“Ouemadmodum cervus,’—began Mistress Margaret; ‘‘as the 
hart brayeth after the waterbrooks,”’—and she took the em- 
broidery and began to go on with it—‘It is the soul you see, 
desiring and fleeing to God, while the things of the world hold 
her back. _ Well, you see, it is difficult to talk about it; for it 
is the inner life that is the real history of a convent; the outer 
things are all plain and simple like all else.”’ 

“Well,” said Mary, “‘is it really true that you were happy?” 

The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her. 

‘““My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it,” she said 
simply. ‘I dream sometimes that we are all back there together, 
and I wake crying for joy. The other night I dreamed that we 
were all in the chapel again, and that it was a spring morning, 
with the dawn beginning to show the painted windows, and that 
all the tapers were burning; and that mass was beginning. Not 
one stall was empty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who died 
when I was a novice, was lacking, and Mr. Wickham made us 
a sermon after the creed, and showed us the crucifix back in its 
place again; and told us that we were all good children, and that 
Our Lord had only sent us away to see if we would be patient; 
and that He was now pleased with us, and had let us come home 
again; and that we should never have to go away again; not 
even when we died: and then I understood that we were in heaven, 
and that it was all over: and I burst out into tears in my 
stall for happiness; and then I awoke and found myself in 
bed; but my cheeks were really wet—Well, well, perhaps by the 
mercy of God it may all come true some day.” 

She spoke so simply that Mary Corbet was amazed; she had 
always fancied that the Religious Life was a bitter struggle, 


A RIDER FROM LONDON 55 


worth, indeed, living for those who could bear it, for the sake 
of the eternal reward; but it had scarcely even occurred to her 
that it was so full of joy in itself; and she looked up under her 
brows at the old lady, whose needle had stopped for a moment. 

A moment after and Lady Maxwell appeared coming down the 
steps into the garden; and at her side Anthony, who was dressed 
ready for riding. 

Old Mistress Margaret had, as she said, been watching Mary 
Corbet those last few weeks; and had determined to speak to 
her plainly. Her instinct had told her that beneath this flippancy 
and glitter there was something that would respond; and she was 
anxious to leave nothing undone by which Mary might be awak- 
ened to the inner world that was in such danger of extinc- 
tion in her soul. It cost the old lady a great effort to break 
through her ordinary reserve, but she judged that Mary could 
only be reached on her human side, and that there were not 
many of her friends whose human sympathy would draw her 
in the right direction. It is strange, sometimes, to find that some 
silent old lady has a power for sounding human character, which 
far shrewder persons lack; and this quiet old nun, so ignorant, 
one would have said, of the world and of the motives from which 
ordinary people act, had managed somehow to touch springs in 
this girl’s heart that had never been reached before. 

And now as Miss Corbet and Lady Maxwell talked, and 
Anthony lolled embarrassed beside them, attempting now and then 
to join in the conversation, Mistress Margaret, as she sat a little 
apart and worked away at the panting stag, dreamed away, smil- 
ing quietly to herself, of all the old scenes that her own conversa- 
tion had called up into clearer consciousness; of the pleasant 
little meadow of the Sussex priory, with the old apple-trees and 
the straight box-lined path called the nun’s walk from time im- 
memorial; all lighted with the pleasant afternoon glow, as it 
streamed from the west, throwing the slender poplar shadows 
across the grass; and of the quiet chatter of the brook as it over- 
flowed from the fish ponds at the end of the field and ran through 
the meadows beyond the hedge. The cooing of the pigeons as 
they sunned themselves round the dial in the centre of this 
Italian garden and on the roof of the hall helped on her reminis- 
cences, for there had been a dovecoie at the priory. Where were 
all her sisters now, those who had sat with her in the same sombre 
habits in the garth, with the same sunshine in their hearts? 
Some she knew, and thanked God for it, were safe in glory; 


56 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


others were old like her, but still safe in Holy Religion in France 
where as yet there was peace and sanctuary for the servants of 
the Most High; one or two—and for these she lifted up her heart 
in petition as she sat—one or two had gone back to the world, 
relinquished everything, and died to grace. Then the old faces 
one by one passed before her; old Dame Agnes with her mum- 
bling lips and her rosy cheeks like wrinkled apples, looking so 
fresh and wholesome in the white linen about her face; and 
then the others one by one—that white-faced, large-eyed sister 
who had shown such passionate devotion at first that they all 
thought that God was going to raise up a saint amongst them— 
ah! God help her—she had sunk back at the dissolution, from 
those heights of sanctity towards whose summits she had set 
her face, down into the muddy torrent of the world that went 
roaring down to the abyss—and who was responsible? ‘There 
was Dame Avice, the Sacristan, with her businesslike move- 
ments going about the garden, gathering flowers for the altar, 
with her queer pursed lips as she arranged them in her hands with 
her head a little on one side; how annoying she used to be some- 
times; but how good and tender at heart—God rest her soul! 
And there was Mr. Wickham, the old priest who had been their 
chaplain for so many years, and who lived in the village parson- 
age, waited upon by Tom Downe, that served at the altar too— 
he who had got the horses ready when the nuns had to go at 
last on that far-off May morning, and had stood there, holding 
the bridles and trying to hide his wet face behind the horses; 
where was Tom now? And Mr. Wickham too—he had gone to 
France with some of the nuns; but he had never settled down 
there—he couldn’t bear the French ways—and besides he had 
left his heart behind him buried in the little Sussex priory among 
the meadows. 

And so the old lady sat, musing; while the light and shadow of 
reminiscence moved across her face; and her lips quivered or 
her eyes wrinkled up with humour, at the thought of all those 
old folks with their faces and their movements and their ways 
of doing and speaking. Ah! well, please God, some day her 
dream would really come true; and they shall all be gathered 
again from France and England with their broken hearts mended 
and their tears wiped away, and Mr. Wickham himself shall 
minister to them and make them sermons, and Tom Downe too 
shall be there to minister to him—all in one of the many man- 
sions of which the Saviour spoke. 


A RIDER FROM LONDON 57 


And so she heard nothing of the talk of the others; though 
her sister looked at her tenderly once or twice; and Mary Corbet 
chattered and twitched her buckles in the sun, and Anthony 
sat embarrassed in the midst of Paradise; and she knew nothing 
of where she was nor of what was happening round her, until 
Mary Corbet said that it was time for the horses to be round, 
and that she must go and get ready and not keep Mr. James 
and Mr. Anthony waiting. Then, as she and Anthony went 
towards the house, the old lady looked up from the braying stag 
and found herself alone with her sister. 

Mistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up 
the steps, and then spoke. 

“I have told her all, sister,” she said, “she can be 
trusted.” 

Lady Maxwell nodded gently. 

“She has a good heart,” went on the other, ‘and Our Lord no 
_ doubt will find some work for her to do at Court.” 

There was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of 
the silk being drawn through the stuff. 

“Vou know best, Margaret,” said Lady Maxwell. 

Even as she spoke there was the sound of a door thrown 
violently open and old Sir Nicholas appeared on the top of the 
steps, hatless and plainly in a state of great agitation; beside 
him stood a courier, covered with the dust of the white roads, 
and his face crimson with hard riding. Sir Nicholas stood there 
as if dazed, and Lady Maxwell sprang up quickly to go to him. 
But a moment after there appeared behind him a little group, 
his son James, Miss Corbet and a servant or two; while Anthony 
hung back; and Mr. James came up quickly, and took his father 
by the arm; and together the little company came down the 
steps into the still and sunny garden. 

“What is it?” cried Lady Maxwell, trying to keep her voice 
under control; while Mistress Margaret laid her work quietly 
down, and stood up too. 

“Tell my lady,” said Sir Nicholas to the courier, who stood a 
little apart. 

“Tf you please, my lady,” he said, as if repeating a lesson, 
“a Bull of the Holy Father has been found nailed to the door 
of the Bishop of London’s palace, deposing Elizabeth and releas- 
ing all her subjects from their allegiance.” 

Lady Maxwell went to her husband and took him by the arm 


gently. 


58 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“What does it mean, sweetheart?” she asked. 

“Tt means that Catholics must choose between their sovereign 
and their God.” 

“God have mercy,” said a servant behind. 


CHAPTER VI 
MR. STEWART 


Sir NicHotras’ exclamatory sentence was no exaggeration. That 
terrible choice of which he spoke, with his old eyes shining with 
the desire to make it, did not indeed come so immediately as 
he anticipated; but it came none the less. From every point 
of view the Bull was unfortunate, though it may have been a 
necessity; for it marked the declaration of war between England 
- and the Catholic Church. A gentle appeal had been tried before; 
Elizabeth, who, it must be remembered had been crowned during 
mass with Catholic ceremonial, and had received the Blessed Sac- 
rament, had been entreated by the Pope as his ‘“‘dear daughter 
in Christ” to return to the Fold; and now there seemed to him 
no possibility left but this ultimatum. 

It is indeed difficult to see what else, from his point of view, 
he could have done. To continue to pretend that Elizabeth was 
his “dear daughter” would have discredited his fatherly authority 
in the eyes of the whole Christian world. He had patiently made 
an advance towards his wayward child; and she had repudiated 
and scorned him. Nothing was left but to recognise and treat 
her as an enemy of the Faith, an usurper of spiritual preroga- 
tives, and an apostate spoiler of churches; to do this might cer- 
tainly bring trouble upon others of his less distinguished but 
more obedient children, who were in her power; but to pretend 
that the suffering thus brought down upon Catholics was unneces- 
sary, and that the Pope alone was responsible for their persecu- 
tion, is to be blind to the fact that Elizabeth had already openly 
defied and repudiated his authority, and had begun to do her 
utmost to coax and compel his children to be disobedient to their 
father. 

The shock of the Bull to Elizabeth was considerable; she had 
not expected this extreme measure; and it was commonly reported 
too that France and Spain were likely now to unite on a religious 
basis against England; and that at least one of these Powers 
had sanctioned the issue of the Bull. This of course helped greatly 


og 


60 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


to complicate further the already complicated political position. 
Steps were taken immediately to strengthen England’s position 
against Scotland with whom it was now, more than ever, to be 
feared that France would co-operate; and the Channel Fleet was 
reinforced under Lord Clinton, and placed with respect to France 
in what was almost a state of war, while it was already in an 
informal state of war with Spain. There was fierce confusion 
in the Privy Council. Elizabeth, who at once began to vacillate 
under the combined threats of La Mothe, the French ambassador, 
and the arguments of the friend of Catholics, Lord Arundel, was 
counter-threatened with ruin by Lord Keeper Bacon unless she 
would throw in her lot finally with the Protestants and continue 
her hostility and resistance to the Catholic Scotch party. But 
in spite of Bacon Elizabeth’s heart failed her, and if it had not 
been for the rashness of Mary Stuart’s friends, Lord Southampton 
and the Bishop of Ross, the Queen might have been induced to 
substitute conciliation for severity towards Mary and the Catholic 
party generally. Southampton was arrested, and again there fol- 
lowed the further encouragement of the Protestant camp by the 
rising fortunes of the Huguenots and the temporary reverses 
to French Catholicism; so the pendulum swung this way and that. 
Elizabeth’s policy changed almost from day to day. She was 
tormented with temporal fears of a continental crusade against 
her, and by the spiritual terrors of the Pope’s Bull; and her 
unfathomable fickleness was the despair of her servants. 

Meanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke 
out; and volleys from both sides followed the solemn roar and 
crash of Regnans in Excelsis. 

But while the war of words went on, and the theological 
assaults and charges were given and received, repulsed or avoided, 
something practical must, it was felt, be done immediately; and 
search was made high and low for other copies of the Bull. The 
lawyers in the previous year had fallen under suspicion of re- 
ligious unsoundness; judges could not be trusted to convict 
Catholics accused of their religion; and counsel was unwilling to 
prosecute them; therefore the first inquisition was made in the 
Inns of Court; and almost immediately a copy of the Bull was 
found in the room of a student in Lincoln’s Inn, who upon the 
rack in the Tower confessed that he had received it from one 
John Felton, a Catholic gentleman who lived upon his property 
in Southwark. Upon Felton’s arrest (for he had not attempted 
to escape) he confessed immediately without pressure, that he 


MR. STEWART 61 


had affixed the Bull to the Bishop of London’s gate; but although 
he was racked repeatedly he would not incriminate a single per- 
son besides himself; but at his trial would only assert with a 
joyous confidence that he was not alone; and that twenty-five 
peers, six hundred gentlemen, and thirty thousand commoners 
were ready to die in the Holy Father’s quarrel. He behaved 
with astonishing gallantry throughout, and after his condemnation 
had been pronounced upon the fourth of August at the Guild- 
hall, on the charge of high-treason, he sent a diamond ring from 
his own finger, of the value of £400, to the Queen to show that 
he bore her no personal ill-will. He had been always a steadfast 
Catholic; his wife had been maid of honour to Mary and a friend | 
of Elizabeth’s. On August the eighth he suffered the abominable 
punishment prescribed; he was drawn on a hurdle to the gate 
of the Bishop’s palace in S. Paul’s Churchyard, where he had 
affixed the Bull, hanged upon a new gallows, cut down before 
he was unconscious, disembowelled and quartered. His name has 
since been placed on the roll of the Blessed by the Apostolic See 
in whose quarrel he so cheerfully laid down his life. 

News of these and such events continued of course to be eagerly 
sought after by the Papists all over the kingdom; and the Max- 
wells down at Great Keynes kept in as close touch with the heart 
of affairs as almost any private persons in the kindom out of town. 
sir Nicholas was one of those fiery natures to whom opposition 
or pressure is as oil to flame. He began at once to organise 
his forces and prepare for the struggle that was bound to come. 
He established first a kind of private post to London and to other 
Catholic houses round; for purposes however of defence rather 
than offence, so that if any steps were threatened, he and his 
friends might be aware of the danger in time. There was great 
sorrow at the news of John Felton’s death; and mass was said 
for his soul almost immediately in the little oratory at Maxwell 
Court by one of the concealed priests who went chiefly between 
Hampshire and Sussex ministering to the Catholics of those dis- 
tricts. Mistress Margaret spent longer than ever at her prayers; 
Lady Maxwell had all she could do to keep her husband from 
some furious act of fanatical retaliation for John Felton’s death 
—some useless provocation of the authorities; the children at 
the Dower House began to come to the Hall less often, not 
because they were less welcomed, but because there was a con- 
straint in the air. All seemed preoccupied; conversations ceased 
abruptly on their entrance, and fits of abstraction would fall from 


62 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


time to time upon their kindly hosts. In the meanwhile, too, 
the preparations for James Maxwell’s departure, which had 
already begun to show themselves, were now pushed forward 
rapidly; and one morning in the late summer, when Isabel came 
up to the Hall, she found that Lady Maxwell was confined to 
her room and could not be seen that day; she caught a glimpse 
of Sir Nicholas’ face as he quickly crossed the entrance hall, that 
made her draw back from daring to intrude on such grief; and 
on inquiry found that Mr. James had ridden away that morning, 
and that the servants did not know when to expect him back, 
nor what was his destination. 

In other ways also at this time did Sir Nicholas actively help 
on his party. Great Keynes was in a convenient position and 
circumstances for agents who came across from the Continent. 
It was sufficiently near London, yet not so near to the highroad 
or to London itself as to make disturbance probable; and its 
very quietness under the spiritual care of a moderate minister 
like Mr. Dent, and its serenity, owing to the secret sympathy of 
many of the villagers and neighbours, as well as from the personal 
friendship between Sir Nicholas and the master of the Dower 
House—an undoubted Protestant—all these circumstances com- 
bined to make Maxwell Hall a favourite halting-place for priests 
and agents from the Continent. Strangers on horseback or in 
carriages, and sometimes even on foot, would arrive there after 
nightfall, and leave in a day or two for London. Its nearness 
to London enabled them to enter the city at any hour they thought 
best after ten or eleven in the forenoon. They came on very 
various businesses; some priests even stayed there and made the 
Hall a centre for their spiritual ministrations for miles round; 
others came with despatches from abroad, some of which were 
even addressed to great personages at Court and at the Embassies 
where much was being done by the Ambassadors at this time to 
aid their comrades in the Faith, and to other leading Catholics; 
and others again came with pamphlets printed abroad for distribu- 
tion in England, some of them indeed seditious, but many of 
them purely controversial and hortatory, and with other devo- 
tional articles and books such as it was difficult to obtain in 
England, and might not be exposed for public sale in booksellers’ 
shops: Agnus Deis, beads, hallowed incense and crosses were 
being sent in large numbers from abroad, and were eagerly sought 
after by the Papists in all directions. It was remarkable that 
while theatening clouds appeared to be gathering on all sides 


MR. STEWART 63 


over the Catholic cause, yet the deepening peril was accompanied 
by a great outburst of religious zeal. It was reported to the 
Archbishop that “‘massing” was greatly on the increase in Kent; 
and was attributed, singularly enough, to the Northern Rebellion, 
which had ended in disaster for the Papists; but the very fact that 
such a movement could take place at all probably heartened many 
secret sympathisers, who had hitherto considered themselves 
almost alone in a heretic population. 

sir Nicholas came in one day to dinner in a state of great 
fury. One of his couriers had just arrived with news from Lon- 
don; and the old man came in fuming and resentful. 

“What hypocrisy!” he cried out to Lady Maxwell and Mistress 
Margaret, who were seated at table. ‘Not content with per- 
secuting Catholics, they will not even allow us to say we are 
persecuted for the Faith. Here is the Lord Keeper declaring in 
the Star Chamber that no man is to be persecuted for his private 
faith, but only for his public acts, and that the Queen’s Grace 
desires nothing so little as to meddle with any man’s conscience. 
Then I suppose they would say that hearing mass was a public 
act and therefore unlawful; but then how if a man’s private 
faith bids him to hear mass? Is not that meddling with his 
private conscience to forbid him to go to mass? What folly is 
this? And yet my Lord Keeper and her Grace are no fools! 
Then are they worse than fools?” 

Lady Maxwell tried to quiet the old man, for the servants 
were not out of the room; and it was terribly rash to speak like 
that before them; but he would not be still nor sit down, but 
raged up and down before the hearth, growling and breaking out 
now and again. What especially he could not get off his mind 
was that this was the Old Religion that was prescribed. That 
England for generations had held the Faith, and that then the 
Faith and all that it involved had been declared unlawful, was 
to him iniquity unfathomable. He could well understand some 
new upstart sect being persecuted, but not the Old Religion. He 
kept on returning to this. 

“Have they so far forgotten the Old Faith as to think it can 
be held in a man’s private conscience without appearing in his 
life, like their miserable damnable new fangled Justification by 
faith without works? Or that a man can believe in the blessed 
sacrament of the altar and yet not desire to receive it; or in 
penance and yet not be absolved; or in Peter and yet not say 
so, nor be reconciled. You may believe, say they, of their clem- 


64 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


oe what you like; be justified by that; that is enough! 
ab bein 

However mere declaiming against the Government was barren 
work, and Sir Nicholas soon saw that; and instead, threw him- 
self with more vigour than ever into entertaining and forwarding 
the foreign emissaries. 

Mary Corbet had returned to London by the middle of July; 
and Hubert was not yet returned; so Sir Nicholas and the two 
ladies had the Hall to themselves. Now it must be confessed 
that the old man had neither the nature nor the training for 
the réle of a conspirator, even of the mildest description. He 
was so exceedingly impulsive, unsuspicious and passionate that 
it would have been the height of folly to entrust him with any 
weighty secret, if it was possible to dispense with him; but the 
Catholics over the water needed stationary agents so grievously; 
and Sir Nicholas’ name commanded such respect, and his house 
such conveniences, that they overlooked the risk involved in 
making him their confidant, again and again; besides it need not 
;be said that his honour and fidelity was beyond reproach; and 
those qualities after all balance favourably against a good deal 
of shrewdness and discretion. He, of course, was serenely unable 
to distinguish between sedition and religion; and entertained polit- 
ical meddlers and ordinary priests with an equal enthusiasm. It 
was pathetic to Lady Maxwell to see her simple old husband 
shuffling away his papers, and puzzling over cyphers and per- 
petually leaving the key of them lying about, and betraying again 
and again when he least intended it, by his mysterious becks 
and nods and oracular sayings, that some scheme was afoot. She 
could have helped him considerably if he had allowed her; but 
he had an idea that the capacities of ladies in general went no 
further than their harps, their embroidery and their devotions; 
and besides, he was chivalrously unwilling that his wife should 
be in any privy to business that involved such risks as this. 

One sunny morning in August he came into her room early just 
as she was finishing her prayers, and announced the arrival of 
an emissary from abroad. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, ‘‘will you prepare the east chamber for 
a young man whom we will call Mr. Stewart, if you please, who 
will arrive to-night. He hopes to be with us until after dusk 
to-morrow when he will leave; and I shall be obliged if you 
will No, no, my dear. I will order the horses myself.” 

The old man then bustled off to the stableyard and ordered a 





MR. STEWART 65 


saddle-horse to be taken at once to Cuckfield, accompanied by 
a groom on another horse. These were to arrive at the inn and 
await orders from a stranger “whom you will call Mr. Stewart, if 
you please.” Mr. Stewart was to change horses there, and ride 
on to Maxwell Hall, and Sir Nicholas further ordered the same 
two horses and the same groom to be ready the following evening 
at about nine o’clock, and to be at “Mr. Stewart’s” orders again 
as before. 

This behaviour of Sir Nicholas’ was of course most culpably 
indiscreet. A child could not but have suspected something, and 
the grooms, who were of course Catholics, winked merrily at one 
another when the conspirator’s back was turned, and he had 
hastened in a transport of zeal and preoccupation back again 
to the house to interrupt his wife in her preparations for the 
guest. 

That evening ‘Mr. Stewart” arrived according to arrangements. 
He was a slim red-haired man, not above thirty years of age, 
the kind of man his enemies would call foxy, with a very courteous 
and deliberate manner, and he spoke with a slight Scotch accent. 
He had the air of doing everything on purpose. He let his 
riding-whip fall as he greeted Lady Maxwell in the entrance 
hall; but picked it up with such a dignified grace that you would 
have sworn he had let it fall for some wise reason of his own. 
He had a couple of saddle-bags with him, which he did not 
let out of his sight for a moment; even keeping his eye upon them 
as he met the ladies and saluted them. They were carried up 
to the east chamber directly, their owner following; where supper 
had been prepared. There was no real reason, since he arrived 
with such publicity, why he should not have supped downstairs, 
but Sir Nicholas had been peremptory. It was by his directions 
also that the arrival had been accomplished in the manner it 
had. 

After he had supped, Sir Nicholas receiving the dishes from 
the servants’ hands at the door of the room with the same air 
of secrecy and despatch, his host suggested that he should come 
to Lady Maxwell’s drawing-room, as the ladies were anxious to 
see him. Mr. Stewart asked leave to bring a little valise with 
him that had travelled in one of the bags, and then followed his 
host who preceded him with a shaded light along the gallery. 

When he entered he bowed again profoundly, with a slightly 
French air, to the ladies and to the image over the fire; and 
then seated himself, and asked leave to open his valise. He did 


66 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


so with their permission, and displayed to them the numerous 
devotional articles and books that it contained. The ladies and 
Sir Nicholas were delighted, and set aside at once some new books 
of devotion, and then they fell to talk. The Netherlands, from 
which Mr. Stewart had arrived two days before, on the east 
coast, were full at this time of Catholic refugees, under the Duke 
of Alva’s protection. Here they had been living, some of them 
even from Elizabeth’s accession, and Sir Nicholas and his ladies 
had many inquiries to make about their acquaintances, many of 
which Mr. Stewart was able to satisfy, for, from his conversation 
he was plainly one in the confidence of Catholics both at home 
and abroad. And so the evening passed away quietly. It was 
thought better by Sir Nicholas that Mr. Stewart should not be 
present at the evening devotions that he always conducted for 
the household in the dining-hall, unless indeed a priest were 
present to take his place; so Mr. Stewart was again conducted 
with the same secrecy to the East Chamber; and Sir Nicholas 
promised at his request to look in on him again after prayers. 
When prayers were over, Sir Nicholas went up to his guest’s 
room, and found him awaiting him in a state of evident excite- 
ment, very unlike the quiet vivacity and good humour he had 
shown when with the ladies. 

“Sir Nicholas,” he said, standing up, as his host came in, “I 
have not told you all my news.” And when they were both 
seated he proceeded: 

‘You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; 
he has been caught.” 

The old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on: 

“When I left Antwerp, Sir Nicholas, Dr. Storey was in the 
town. I saw him myself in the street by the Cathedral only a 
few hours before I embarked. He is very old, you know, and 
lame, worn out with good works, and he was hobbling down the 
street on the arm of a young man. When I arrived at Yarmouth 
I went out into the streets about a little business I had with a 
bookseller, before taking horse. I heard a great commotion down 
near the docks, at the entrance of Bridge Street; and hastened 
down there; and there I saw pursuivants and seamen and officers 
all gathered about a carriage, and keeping back the crowd that 
was pressing and crying out to know who the man was; and 
presently the carriage drove by me, scattering the crowd, and 
I could see within; and there sat old Dr. Storey, very white 
and ill-looking, but steady and cheerful, whom I had seen the 


MR. STEWART 67 


very day before in Antwerp. Now this is very grievous for Dr. 
Storey; and I pray God to deliver him; but surely the Duke 
and the King of Spain must move now. They cannot leave him 
in Cecil’s hands; and then, Sir Nicholas, we must all be ready, 
for who knows what may happen.” 

Sir Nicholas was greatly moved. There was one of the per- 
plexities which so much harassed all the Papists at this time. It 
seemed certain that Mr. Stewart’s prediction must be fulfilled. 
Dr. Storey was a naturalised subject of King Philip and in the 
employment of Alva, and he had been carried off forcibly by 
the English Government. It afterwards came out how it had 
been done. He had been lured away from Antwerp and enticed 
on board a trader at Bergen-op-Zoom, by Cecil’s agents with the 
help of a traitor named Parker, on pretext of finding heretical 
books there arriving from England; and as soon as he had set 
foot on deck he was hurried below and carried straight off to 
Yarmouth. Here then was Sir Nicholas’ perplexity. To welcome 
Spain when she intervened and to work actively for her, was 
treason against his country; to act against Spain was to delay 
the re-establishment of the Religion—something that appeared 
to him very like treason against his faith. Was the dreadful 
choice between his sovereign and his God, he wondered as he 
paced up and down and questioned Mr. Stewart, even now 
imminent? 

The whole affair, too, was so formidable and so mysterious 
that the hearts of these Catholics and of others in England when 
they heard the tale began to fail them. Had the Government 
then so long an arm and so keen an eye? And if it was able 
to hale a man from the shadow of the Cathedral at Antwerp 
and the protection of the Duke of Alva into the hands of pur- 
suivants at Yarmouth within the space of a few hours, who then 
was safe? 

And so the two sat late that night in the East Chamber; and 
laid schemes and discussed movements and probabilities and 
the like, until the dawn began to glimemr through the cracks 
of the shutters and the birds to chirp in the eaves; and Sir 
Nicholas at last carried to bed with him an anxious and a heavy 
heart. Mr. Stewart, however, did not seem so greatly disturbed; 
possibly because on the one side he had not others dearer to him 
than his own life involved in these complex issues; and partly 
because he at any rate had not the weight of suspense and inde- 
cision that so drew his host two ways at once, for Mr. Stewart 


68 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


was whole-heartedly committed already, and knew well how he 
would act should the choice present itself between Elizabeth 
and Philip. 

The following morning Sir Nicholas still would not allow his 
guest to come downstairs, and insisted that all his meals should 
be served in the East Chamber, while he himself, as before, re- 
ceived the food at the door and set it before Mr. Stewart. Mr. 
Stewart was greatly impressed and touched by the kindness of 
the old man, although not by his capacity for conspiracy. He 
had intended to tell his host far more than he had done of the 
movements of political and religious events, for he could not 
but believe, before his arrival, that a Catholic so prominent and 
influential as Sir Nicholas was becoming by reputation among 
the refugees abroad, was a proper person to be entrusted even 
with the highest secrets; but after a very little conversation 
with him the night before, he had seen how ingenuous the old 
man was, with his laughable attempts at secrecy and his lament- 
able lack of discretion; and so he had contented himself with 
general information and gossip, and had really told Sir Nicholas 
very little indeed of any importance. 

After dinner Sir Nicholas again conducted his guest to the 
drawing-room, where the ladies were ready to receive him. He 
had obtained Mr. Stewart’s permission the night before to tell 
his wife and sister-in-law the news about Dr. Storey; and the 
four sat for several hours together discussing the situation. Mr. 
Stewart was able to tell them too, in greater detail, the story of 
Lord Sussex’s punitive raid into Scotland in the preceding April. 
They had heard of course the main outline of the story with the 
kind of embroideries attached that were usual in those days of 
inaccurate reporting; but their guest was a Scotchman himself 
and had the stories first-hand in some cases from those rendered 
homeless by the raid, who had fled to the Netherlands where he 
had met them. Briefly the raid was undertaken on the pretended 
plea of an invitation from the “King’s men” or adherents of the 
infant James; but in reality to chastise Scotland and reduce it 
to servility. Sussex and Lord Hunsdon in the east, Lord Scrope 
on the west, had harried, burnt, and destroyed in the whole 
countryside about the Borders. Especially had Tiviotdale suf- 
fered. Altogether it was calculated that Sussex had burned three 
hundred villages and blown up fifty castles, and forty more 
“strong houses,” some of these latter, however, being little more 
than border peels. Mr. Stewart’s accounts were the more mov- 


= 


MR. STEWART 69 


ing in that he spoke in a quiet delicate tone, and used little pic- 
turesque phrases in his speech. 

“Twelve years ago,” said Mr. Stewart, “I was at Branxholme 
myself. It was a pleasant house, well furnished and appointed; 
fortified, too, as all need to be in that country, with sheaves of 
pikes in all the lower rooms, and Sir Walter Scott gave me a 
warm welcome, for I was there on a business that pleased him. 
He showed me the gardens and orchards, all green and sweet, 


like these of yours, Lady Maxwell. And it seemed to me a home 


where a man might be content to spend all his days. Well, my 
Lord Sussex has been a visitor there now; and what he has left 
of the house would not shelter a cow, nor what is left of the 
pleasant gardens sustain her. At least, so one of the Scots told 
me whom I met in the Netherlands in June.” 

He talked, too, of the extraordinary scenes of romance and 
chivalry in which Mary Queen of Scots moved during her cap- 
tivity under Lord Scrope’s care at Bolton Castle in the previous 
year. He had met in his travels in France one of her undistin- 
guished adherents who had managed to get a position in the 
castle during her detention there. 

“The country was alive with her worshippers,” said Mr. Stew- 
art. ‘They swarmed like bees round a hive. In the night voices 
would be heard crying out to her Grace out of the darkness round 
the castle; and when the guards rode out they would find no man 
but maybe hear just a laugh or two. Her men would lie out at 
night and watch her window (for she would never go to rest 
till late), and pray towards it as if it were a light before the 
blessed sacrament. When she rode out a-hunting, with her 
guards of course about her, and my Lord Scrope or Sir Francis 
Knollys never far away, a beggar maybe would be sitting out 
on the road and ask an alms; and cry out ‘God save your Grace’; 
but he would be a beggar who was accustomed to wear silk next 
his skin except when he went a-begging. Many young gentle- 
men there were, yes and old ones too, who would thank God for a 
blow or a curse from some foul English trooper for his meat, if 
only he might have a look from the Queen’s eyes for his grace 
before meat. Oh! they would plot too, and scheme and lie awake 
half the night spinning their webs, not to catch her Grace indeed, 
but to get her away from that old Spider Scrope; and many’s the 
word and the scrap of paper that would go in to her Grace, right 
under the very noses of my Lord Scrope and Sir Francis them- 
selves, as they sat at their chess in the Queen’s chamber. It’s a 


qo BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


long game of chess that the two Queens are playing; but thank 
our Lady and the Saints it’s not mate yet—not mate yet; and 
the White Queen will win, please God, before the board’s over- 
turned.” | 

And he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, 
and the wretchedness of the fugitives. 

“They rode over the moors to Liddesdale,” he said, “ladies 
and all, in bitter weather, wind and snow, day after day, with 
stories of Clinton’s troopers all about them, and scarcely time 
for bite or sup or sleep. My lady Northumberland was so over- 
come with weariness and sickness that she could ride no more 
at last, and had to be left at John-of-the-Side’s house, where 
she had a little chamber where the snow came in at one corner, 
and the rats ran over my lady’s face as she lay. My Lords 
Northumberland and Westmoreland were in worse case, and spent 
their Christmas with no roof over them but what they could find 
out in the braes and woods about Harlaw, and no clothes but 
the foul rags that some beggar had thrown away, and no food 
but a bird or a rabbit that they could pick up here and there, or 
what their friends could get to them now and again privately. 
And then my Lord Northumberland’s little daughters whom he 
was forced to leave behind at Topclifi—a sweet Christmas they 
had! Their money and food was soon spent; they could have 
scarcely a fire in that bitter hard season; and God who feeds the 
ravens alone knows how they were sustained; and for entertain- 
ment to make the time pass merrily, all they had was to see the 
hanging of their own servants in scores about the house, who had 
served them and their father well; and all their music at night 
was the howling of the wind in those heavily laden Christmas- 
trees, and the noise of the chains in which the men were hanged.” 

Mr. Stewart’s narratives were engrossing to the two ladies and 
Sir Nicholas. They had never come so close to the struggles of 
the Catholics in the north before; and although the Northern 
Rebellion had ended so disastrously, yet it was encouraging, 
although heartbreaking too, to hear that delicate women and 
children were ready gladly to suffer such miseries if the religious 
cause that was so dear to them could be thereby helped. Sir 
Nicholas, as has been said, was in two minds as to the lawfulness 
of rising against a temporal sovereign in defence of religious 
liberties. His whole English nature revolted against it, and yet 
so many spiritual persons seemed to favour it. His simple con- 
science was perplexed. But none the less he could listen with 


MR. STEWART 71 


the most intense interest and sympathy to these tales of these 
co-religionists of his own, who were so clearly convinced of their 
right to rebel in defence of their faith. 

And so with such stories the August afternoon passed away. 
It was a thundery day, which it would have been pleasanter to 
spend in the garden, but that, Sir Nicholas said, under the cir- 
cumstances was not to be thought of; so they threw the windows 
wide to catch the least breath of air; and the smell of the flower- 
garden came sweetly up and flooded the low cool room; and so 
they sat engrossed until the evening. 

Supper was ordered for Mr. Stewart at half-past seven o’clock; 
and this meal Sir Nicholas had consented should be laid down- 
stairs in his own private room opening out of the hall, and that 
he and his ladies should sit down to table at the same time. Mr. 
Stewart went to his room an hour before to dress for riding, and 
to superintend the packing of his saddle-bags; and at half-past 
seven he was conducted downstairs by Sir Nicholas who insisted 
on carrying the saddle-bags with his own hands, and they found 
the two ladies waiting for them in the panelled study that had 
one window giving upon the terrace that ran along the south of 
the house above the garden. When supper had been brought in 
by Sir Nicholas’ own body-servant, Mr. Boyd, they sat down 
to supper after a grace from Sir Nicholas. The horses were 
ordered for nine o’clock. 


CHAPTER VII 
THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL 


On the morning of the day after Mr. Stewart’s secret arrival 
at Maxwell Hall, the Rector was walking up and down the lawn 
that adjoined the churchyard. 

He had never yet wholly recovered from the sneers of Mistress 
Corbet; the wounds had healed but had not ceased to smart. 
How blind these Papists were, he thought! how prejudiced for — 
the old trifling details of worship! how ignorant of the vital prin- 
ciples still retained! The old realities of God and the Faith 
and the Church were with them still, in this village, he reminded 
himself; it was only the incrustations of error that had been 
removed. Of course the transition was difficult and hearts were 
sore; but the Eternal God can be patient. But then, if the dis- 
content of the Papists smouldered on one side, the fanatical and 
irresponsible zeal of the Puritans flared on the other. How diffi- 
cult, he thought, to steer the safe middle course! How much 
cool faith and clearsightedness it needed! He reminded him- 
self of Archbishop Parker who now held the rudder, and com- 
forted himself with the thought of his wise moderation in dealing 
with excesses, his patient pertinacity among the whirling gusts 
of passion, that enabled him to wait upon events to push his 
schemes, and his tender knowledge of human nature. 

But in spite of these reassuring facts Mr. Dent was anxious. 
What could even the Archbishop do when his suffragans were 
such poor creatures; and when Leicester, the strongest man at 
Court, was a violent Puritan partisan? The Rector would have 
been content to bear the troubles of his own flock and household 
if he had been confident of the larger cause; but the vagaries 
of the Puritans threatened all with ruin. That morning only he 
had received a long account from a Fellow of his own college 
of Corpus Christi, Cambridge, and a man of the same views as 
himself, of the violent controversy raging there at that time. 

“The Professor,” wrote his friend, referring to Thomas Cart- 
wright, “is plastering us all with his Genevan ways. We are all 


72 


THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL 73 


‘Papists, it seems! He would have neither bishop nor priest nor 
archbishop nor dean nor archdeacon, nor dignitaries at all, but just 
the plain Godly Minister, as he names it. Or if he has the bishop 
and the deacon they are to be the Episcopos and the Diaconos of 
the Scripture, and not the Papish counterfeits! Then it seems 
that the minister is to be made not by God but by man—that 
the people are to make him, not the bishop (as if the sheep 
should make the shepherd). Then it appears we are Papists 
too for kneeling at the Communion; this he names a ‘feeble super- 
stition.’ Then he would have all men reside in their benefices 
or vacate them; and all that do not so, it appears, are no better 
than thieves or robbers. 

“And so he rages on, breathing out this smoky stuff, and all 
the young men do run after him, as if her were the very Pillar 
of Fire to lead them to Canaan. One day he says there shall 
be no bishop—and my Lord of Ely rides through Petty Cury 
with scarce a man found to doff cap and say ‘my lord’ save foolish 
‘Papists’ like myself! Another day he will have no distinction 
of apparel; and the young sparks straight dress like ministers, 
and the ministers like young sparks. On another he likes not 
Saint Peter his day, and none will go to church. He would 
have us all to be little Master Calvins, if he could have his way 
with us. But the Master of Trinity has sent a complaint to the 
Council with charges against him, and has preached against him, 
too; but no word hath yet come from the Council; and we fear 
nought will be done; to the sore injury of Christ His holy Church 
and the Protestant Religion; and the triumphing of their pestilent 
heresies.” 

So the caustic divine wrote, and the Rector of Great Keynes 
was heavy-hearted as he walked up and down and read. Every- 
where it was the same story; the extreme precisians openly flouted 
the religion of the Church of England; submitted to episcopal 
ordination as a legal necessity and then mocked at it; refused to 
wear the prescribed dress, and repudiated all other distinctions 
too in meats and days as Judaic remnants; denounced all forms 
of worship except those directly sanctioned by Scripture; in 
short, they remained in the Church of England and drew her pay 
while they scouted her orders and derided her claims. Further, 
they cried out as persecuted martyrs whenever it was proposed 
to insist that they should observe their obligations. But worse 
than all, for such conscientious clergymen as Mr. Dent, was the 
fact that bishops preferred such men to livings, and at the same 


74 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


time were energetic against the Papist party. It was not that 
there was not an abundance of disciplinary machinery ready at 
the bishops’ disposal or that the Queen was opposed to coercion 
—rather she was always urging them to insist upon conformity; 
but it seemed rather to such sober men as the Rector that the 
principle of authority had been lost with the rejection of the 
Papacy, and that anarchy rather than liberty had prevailed in 
the National Church. In darker moments it seemed to him and 
his friends as if any wild fancy was tolerated, so long as it did not 
approximate too closely to the Old Religion; and they grew sick 
at heart. 

It was all the more difficult for the Rector, as he had so little 
sympathy in the place; his wife did all she could to destroy 
friendly relations between the Hall and the Rectory, and openly 
derided her husband’s prelatical leanings; the Maxwells them- 
selves disregarded his priestly claims, and the villagers thought 
of him as an oficial paid to promulgate the new State religion. 
The only house where he found sympathy and help was the 
Dower House; and as he paced up and down his garden now, 
his little perplexed determined face grew brighter as he made up 
his mind to see Mr. Norris again in the afternoon. 

During his meditations he heard, and saw indistinctly, through 
the shrubbery that fenced the lawn from the drive, a mounted 
man ride up to the Rectory door. He supposed it was some 
message, and held himself in readiness to be called into the house, 
but after a minute or two he heard the man ride off again down 
the drive into the village. At dinner he mentioned it to his 
wife, who answered rather shortly that it was a message for her; 
and he let the matter drop for fear of giving offence; he was 
terrified at the thought of provoking more quarrels than were 
absolutely necessary. 

Soon after dinner he put on his cap and gown, and to his 
wife’s inquiries told her where he was going, and that after he 
had seen Mr. Norris he would step on down to Comber’s, where 
was a sick body or two, and that she might expect him back not 
earlier than five o’clock. She nodded without speaking, and he 
went out. She watched him down the drive from the dining- 
room window and then went back to her business with an odd 
expression. 

Mr. Norris, whom he found already seated at his books again 
after dinner, took him out when he had heard his errand, and 
the two began to walk up and down together on the raised walk 


THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL 75 


eae ran along under a line of pines a little way from the 
ouse. 

The Rector had seldom found his friend more sympathetic and 
tender; he knew very well that their intellectual and doctrinal 
standpoints were different, but he had not come for anything 
less than spiritual help, and that he found. He told him all his 
heart, and then waited, while the other, with his thin hands 
clasped behind his back, and his great grey eyes cast up at the 
heavy pines and the tender sky beyond, began to comfort the 
minister. 

‘You are troubled, my friend,” he said, ‘and I do not wonder 
at it, by the turbulence of these times. On all sides are fightings 
and fears. Of course I cannot, as you know, regard these matters 
you have spoken of—episcopacy, ceremonies at the Communion 
and the like—in the grave light in which you see them; but I 
take it, if I understand you rightly, that it is the confusion and 
lack of any authority or respect for antiquity that is troubling 
you more. You feel yourself in a sad plight between these raging 
waves; tossed to and fro, battered upon by both sides, forsaken 
and despised and disregarded. Now, indeed, although I do not 
stand quite where you do, yet I see how great the stress must be; 
but, if I may say so to a minister, it is just what you regard as 
your shame that I regard as your glory. It is the mark of the 
cross that is on your life. When our Saviour went to his passion, 
he went in the same plight as that in which you go; both Jew 
and Gentile were against him on this side and that; his claims 
were disallowed, his royalty denied; he was despised and rejected 
of men. He did not go to his passion as to a splendid triumph, 
bearing his pain like some solemn and mysterious dignity at which 
the world wondered and was silent; but he went battered and 
spat upon, with the sweat and the blood and the spittle running 
down his face, contemned by the contemptible, hated by the 
hateful, rejected by the outcast, barked upon by the curs; and 
it was that that made his passion so bitter. To go to death, 
however painful, with honour and applause, or at least with the 
silence of respect, were easy; it is not hard to die upon a throne; 
but to live on a dunghill with Job, that is bitterness. Now again 
I must protest that I have no right to speak like this to a minister, 
but since you have come to me I must needs says what I think; 
and it is this that some wise man once said, ‘Fear honour, for 
shame is not far off. Covet shame, for honour is surely to 
follow.’ If that be true of the philosopher, how much more true 


76 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


is it of the Christian minister whose profession it is to follow the 
Saviour and to be made like unto him.” 

He said much more of the same kind; and his soft balmy faith 
soothed the minister’s wounds, and braced his will. The Rector 
could not help half envying his friend, living, as it seemed, in 
this still retreat, apart from wrangles and controversy, with the 
peaceful music and sweet fragrance of the pines, and the Love 
of God about him. 

When he had finished he asked the Rector to step indoors with 
him; and there in his own room took down and read to him a 
few extracts from the German mystics that he thought bore upon 
his case. Finally, to put him at his ease again, for it seemed 
an odd reversal that he should be coming for comfort to his 
parishioners, Mr. Norris told him about his two children, and in 
his turn asked his advice. 

“About Anthony,” he said, “I am not at all anxious. I know 
that the boy fancies himself in love; and goes sighing about 
when he is at home; but he sleeps and eats heartily, for I have 
observed him; and I think Mistress Corbet has a good heart and 
means no harm to him. But about my daughter I am less satis- 
fied, for I have been watching her closely. She is quiet and good, 
and, above all, she loves the Saviour; but how do I know that 
her heart is not bleeding within? She has been taught to hold 
herself in, and not to show her feelings; and that, I think, is 
as much a drawback sometimes as wearing the heart upon the 
sleeve.” | 

Mr. Dent suggested sending her away for a visit for a month 
or two. His host mused a moment and then said that he himself 
had thought of that; and now that his minister said so toc, prob- 
ably, under God, that was what was needed. The fact that 
Hubert was expected home soon was an additional reason; and 
he had friends in Northampton, he said, to whom he could send 
her. ‘They hold strongly by the Genevan theology there,” he 
said smiling, “but I think that will do her no harm as a balance to 
the Popery at Maxwell Hall.” 

They talked a few minutes more, and when the minister rose 
to take his leave, Mr. Norris slipped down on his knees as if 
it was the natural thing to do and as if the minister were expect- 
ing it; and asked his guest to engage in prayer. It was the first 
time he had ever done so; probably because this talk had brought 
them nearer together spiritually than ever before. The minister 
was taken aback, and repeated a collect or two from the Prayer- 


THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL 77 


book; then they said the Lord’s Prayer together, and then Mr. 
Norris without any affectation engaged in a short extempore 
prayer, asking for light in these dark times and peace in the 
storm; and begging the blessing of God upon the village and 
“upon their shepherd to whom Thou hast given to drink of the 
Cup of thy Passion,” and upon his own children, and lastly upon 
himself, “the chief of sinners and the least of thy servants that 
is not worthy to be called thy friend.” It touched Mr. Dent 
exceedingly, and he was yet more touched and reconciled to the 
incident when his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with 
eyes closed and his clear cut tranquil face upturned: 

“T ask your blessing, sir.” 

The Rector’s voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then 
with real gratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook 
his friend’s hand, and rustled out from the cool house into the 
sunlit garden, greeting Isabel who was walking up and down 
outside a little pensively, and took the field-path that led towards 
the hamlet where his sick folk were expecting him. 

As he walked back about five o’clock towards the village he 
noticed there was thunder in the air, and was aware of a physical 
oppression, but in his heart it was morning and the birds sing- 
ing. The talk earlier in the afternoon had shown him how, in 
the midst of the bitterness of the Cup, to find the fragrance where 
the Saviour’s lips had rested and that was joy to him. And again, 
his true pastor’s heart had been gladdened by the way his minis- 
trations had been received that afternoon. A sour old man who 
had always scowled at him for an upstart, in his foolish old 
desire to be loyal to the priest who had held the benefice before 
him, had melted at last and asked his pardon and God’s for 
having treated him so ill; and he had prepared the old man for 
death with great contentment to them both, and had left him at 
peace with God and man. On looking back on it all afterwards 
he was convinced that God had thus strengthened him for the 
trouble that was awaiting him at home. 

He had hardly come into his study when his wife entered with 
a strange look, breathing quick and short; she closed the door, 
and stood near it, looking at him apprehensively. 

“George,” she said, rather sharply and nervously, “you must 
not be vexed with me, but 4 

“Well?” he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. 
He knew something terrible impended. 

“I have done it for the best,” she said, and obstinacy and a 





78 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


kind of impatient tenderness strove in her eyes as she looked 
at him. ‘‘You must show yourself a man; it is not fitting that 
loose ladies of the Court should mock—” He got up; and his 
eyes were determined too. 

“Tell me what you have done, woman,” he cried. 

She put out her hand as if to hold him still, and her voice rang 
hard and thin. 

“T will say my say,” she said. “It is not for that that I have 
done it. But you are a Gospel-minister, and must be faithful. 
The Justice is here. I sent for him.” 

“The Justice?’ he said blankly; but his heart was beating 
heavily in his throat. 

“Mr. Frankland from East Grinsted, with a couple of pur- 
suivants and a company of servants. There is a popish agent at 
the Hall, and they are come to take him.” 

The Rector swallowed with difficulty once or twice, and then 
tried to speak, but she went on. “And I have promised that you 
shall take them in by the side door.” 

“T will not!” he cried. 

She held up her hand again for silence, and glanced round 
at the door. 

“T have given him the key,” she said. 

This was the private key, possessed by the incumbent for gen- 
erations past, and Sir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the 
Protestant Rector. 

“There is no choice,” she said. ‘Oh! George, be a man!” 
Then she turned and slipped out. 

He stood perfectly still for a moment; his pulses were racing; 
he could not think. He sat down and buried his face in his 
hands; and gradually his brain cleared and quieted. Then he 
realised what it meant, and his soul rose in blind furious resent- 
ment. This was the last straw; it was the woman’s devilish 
jealousy. But what could he do? The Justice was here. Could 
he warn his friends? He clenched his fingers into his hair as 
the situation came out clear and hard before his brain. Dear 
God, what could he do? 

There were footsteps in the flagged hall, and he raised his head 
as. the door opened and a portly gentleman in riding-dress came 
in, followed by Mrs. Dent. The Rector rose confusedly, but 
could not speak, and his eyes wandered round to his wife again 
and again as she took a chair in the shadow and sat down. But 
the magistrate noticed nothing. 


THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL 79 


‘“‘Aha!” he said, beaming, “You have a wife, sir, that is a 
jewel. Solomon never spoke a truer word; an ornament to her 
husband, he said, I think; but you as a minister should know 
better than I, a mere layman’; and his face creased with 
mirth. 

What did the red-faced fool mean? thought the Rector. If 
only he would not talk so loud! He must think, he must think. 
What could he do? 

“She was very brisk, sir,” the magistrate went on, sitting 
down, and the Rector followed his example, sitting too with his 
back to the window and his hand to his head. 

Then Mr. Frankland went on with his talk; and the man sat 
there, still glancing from time to time mechanically towards his 
wife, who was there in the shadow with steady white face and 
hands in her lap, watching the two men. The magistrate’s voice 
seemed to the bewildered man to roll on like a wheel over stones; 
interminable, grinding, stupefying. What was he saying? What 
was that about his wife? She had sent to him the day before, 
had she, and told him of the popish agent’s coming?—-Ah! A 
dangerous man was he, a spreader of seditious pamphlets? At 
least they supposed he was the man.—Yes, yes, he understood; 
these fly-by-nights were threateners of the whole commonwealth; 
they must be hunted out like vermin—just so; and he as a 
minister of the Gospel should be the first to assist—Just so, he 
agreed with all his heart, as a minister of the Gospel. (Yes, but, 
dear Lord, what was he to do? This fat man with the face of a 
butcher must not be allowed to—) Ah! what was that? He 
had missed that. Would Mr. Frankland be so good as to say 
it again? Yes, yes, he understood now; the men were posted 
already. No one suspected anything; they had come by the 
bridle path——Every door? Did he understand that every door 
of the Hall was watched? Ah! that was prudent; there was no 
chance then of any one sending a warning in? Oh, no, no, he 
did not dream for a moment that there was any concealed 
Catholic who would be likely to do such a thing. But he only 
wondered.—Yes, yes, the magistrate was right; one could not 
be too careful. Because—ah!—-What was that about Sir 
Nicholas? Yes, yes, indeed he was a good landlord, and very 
popular in the village-——Ah! just so; it had better be done quietly, 
at the side door. Yes, that was the one which the key fitted. 
But, but, he thought perhaps, he had better not come in, because 
Sir Nicholas was his friend, and there was no use in making bad 


80 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


blood.—Oh! not to the house; very well, then, he would come as 
far as the yew hedge at—at what time did the magistrate say? 
At half-past eight; yes, that would be best as Mr. Frankland 
said, because Sir Nicholas had ordered the horses for nine 
o’clock; so they would come upon them just at the right time— 
How many men, did Mr. Frankland say? Eight? Oh yes, eight 
and himself, and—he did not quite follow the plan. Ah! through 
the yew hedge on to the terrace and through the south door into 
the hall; then if they bolted—they? Surely he had understood 
the magistrate to say there was only one? Oh! he had not under- 
stood that. Sir Nicholas too? But why, why? Good God, asa 
harbourer of priestsPp—No, but this fellow was an agent, surely. 
Well, if the magistrate said so, of course he was right; but he 
would have thought himself that Sir Nicholas might have been 
left—ah! Well, he would say no more. He quite saw the magis- 
trate’s point now.—No, no, he was no favourer; God forbid! his 
wife would speak for him as to that; Marion would bear witness. 
—Well, well, he thanked the magistrate for his compliments, and 
would he proceed with the plan? By the south door, he was 
saying, yes, into the hall—-Yes, the East room was Sir Nicholas’ 
study; or of course they might be supping upstairs. But it made 
no difference; no, the magistrate was right about that. So long 
as they held the main staircase, and had all the. other doors 
watched, they were safe to have them.—No, no, the cloister wing 
would not be used; they might leave that out of their calcula- 
tions. Besides, did not the magistrate say that Marion had seen 
the lights in the East wing last night? Yes, well, that settled 
it—And the signal? Oh, he had not caught that; the church 
bell, was it to be? But what for? Why did they need a signal? 
Ah! he understood, for the advance at half-past eight.—Just so, 
he would send Thomas up to ring it. Would Marion kindly see 
to that?—Yes, indeed, his wife was a woman to be proud of; 
such a faithful Protestant; no patience with these seditious 
rogues at all. Well, was that all? Was there anything elsep— 
Yes, how dark it was getting; it must be close on eight o’clock. 
Thomas had gone, had he? That was all right—And had the 
men everything they wanted?—Well, yes; although the village 
did go to bed early it would perhaps be better to have no lights; 
because there was no need to rouse suspicion.——Oh! very well; 
perhaps it would be better for Mr. Frankland to go and sit with 
the men and keep them quiet. And his wife would go, too, just 
to make sure they had all they wanted—vVery well, yes; he 


THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL 81 


would wait here in the dark until he was called. Not more than 
a quarter of an hour? Thank you, yes— 

Then the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung him- 
self down in his chair, and buried his face again in his arms. 

Ah! what was to be done? Nothing, nothing, nothing. And 
there they were at the Hall, his neighbours and friends. The kind 
old Catholic and his ladies! How would he ever dare to meet 
their eyes again? But what could be done? Nothing! 

How far away the afternoon seems; that quiet sunny walk 
beneath the pines. His friend is at his books, no doubt, with 
the silver candles, and the open pages, and his own neat manu- 
script growing under his white scholarly fingers. And Isabel; at 
her needlework before the fire—How peaceful and harmless and 
sweet it all is! And down there, not fifty yards away, is the 
village; every light out by now; and the children and parents, 
too, asleep—Ah! what will the news be when they wake to- 
morrow?—And that strange talk this afternoon, of the Saviour 
and His Cup of pain, and the squalor and indignity of the Passion! 
Ah! yes, he could suffer with Jesus on the Cross, so gladly, on 
that Tree of Life—but not with Judas on the Tree of Death! 

And the minister dropped his face lower, over the edge of his 
desk; and the hot tears of misery and self-reproach and impotence 
began to run. There was no help, no help anywhere. All were 
against him—even his wife herself; and his Lord. 

Then with a moan he lifted his hot face into the dusk. 

“Jesus,” he cried in his soul, “Thou knowest all things; Thou 
knowest that I love Thee.” ~~ 

There came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch. 

“It is time,” whispered his wife’s voice. 


CHAPTER VIII 
THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART 


Tuey were still sitting over the supper-table at the Hall. The 
sun had set about the time they had begun, and the twilight had 
deepened into dark; but they had not cared to close the shutters 
as they were to move so soon. The four candles shone out 
through the windows, and there still hung a pale glimmer outside 
owing to the refraction of light from the white stones of the 
terrace. Beyond on the left there sloped away a high black wall 
of impenetrable darkness where the yew hedge stood; over that 
was the starless sky. Sir Nicholas’ study was bright with candle- 
light, and the lace and jewels of Lady Maxwell (for her sister 
wore none) added a vague pleasant sense of beauty to Mr. 
Stewart’s mind; for he was one who often fared coarsely and slept 
hard. He sighed a little to himself as he looked out over this 
shining supper-table past the genial smiling face of Sir Nicholas 
to the dark outside; and thought how in less than an hour he 
would have left the comfort of this house for the grey road and 
its hardships again. It was extraordinarily sweet to him (for he 
was a man of taste and a natural inclination to luxury) to stay 
a day or two now and again at a house like this and mix again 
with his own equals, instead of with the rough company of the 
village inn, or the curious foreign conspirators with their absence 
of educated perception and their doubtful cleanliness. He was 
a man of domestic instincts and good birth and breeding, and 
would have been perfectly at his ease as the master of some 
household such as this; with a chapel and a library and a pleasant 
garden and estate; spending his days in great leisure and good 
deeds. And instead of all this, scarcely by his own choice but 
by what he would have called his vocation, he was partly an exile 
living from hand to mouth in lodgings and inns, and when he 
was in his own fatherland, a hunted fugitive lurking about in 
unattractive disguises. He sighed again once or twice. There was 
silence a moment or two. 

There sounded one note from the church tower a couple of 

82 


THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART 83 


hundred yards away. Lady Maxwell heard it, and looked sud- 
denly up; she scarcely knew why, and caught her sister’s eyes 
glancing at her. There was a shade of uneasiness in them. 

“It is thundery tonight,” said Sir Nicholas. Mr. Stewart did 
not speak. Lady Maxwell looked up quickly at him as he sat 
on her right facing the window; and saw an expression of slight 
disturbance cross his face. He was staring out on to the quickly 
darkening terrace, past Sir Nicholas, who with pursed lips and a 
little frown was stripping off his grapes from the stalk. The look 
of uneasiness deepened, and the young man half rose from his 
chair, and sat down again. 

“What is it, Mr. Stewart?” said Lady Maxwell, and her voice 
had a ring of terror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly. 

“Eh, eh?”—he began. 

The young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out. 

“T beg your pardon,” he said, ‘“‘but I have just seen several 
men pass the window.” 

There was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside 
in the hall; and as the four rose up from table, looking at one 
another, there was a rattle at the handle outside, the door flew 
open, and a ruddy strongly-built man stood there, with a slightly 
apprehensive air, and holding a loaded cane a little ostentatiously 
in his hand; the faces of several men looked over his shoulder. 

Sir Nicholas’ ruddy face had paled, his mouth was half open 
with dismay, and he stared almost unintelligently at the magis- 
trate. Mr. Stewart’s hand closed on the handle of a knife that 
lay beside his plate. 

“In the Queen’s name,” said Mr. Frankland, and looked from 
the knife to the young man’s white determined face, and down 
again. A little sobbing broke from Lady Maxwell. 

“Tt is useless, sir,”’ said the magistrate; “Sir Nicholas, persuade 
your guest not to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; 
the house has been watched for hours.” | 

Sir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened 
again. Lady Maxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the 
table, and threw her arm round the old man’s neck. Still none 
of them spoke. 

“Come in,” said the magistrate, turning a little. The men 
outside filed in, to the number of half a dozen, and two or three 
more were left in the hall. All were armed. Mistress Margaret, 
who had stood up with the rest, sat down again, and rested her 
head on her hand; apparently completely at her ease. 


84 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“YT must beg pardon, Lady Maxwell,” he went on, “but my duty 
leaves me no choice.” He turned to the young man, who, on 
seeing the officers had laid the knife down again, and now 
stood, with one hand on the table, rather pale, but apparently 
completely self-controlled, looking a little disdainfully at the 
magistrate. 

Then Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched 
as he spoke, and the hand that he lifted to his wife’s arm shook 
with nervousness, and his voice was cracked and unnatural. 

“Sit down, my dear, sit down—What is all this?—I do not 
understand——Mr. Frankland, sir, what do you want of me?— 
And who are all these gentlemen?—Won’t you sit down, Mr. 
Frankland, and take a glass of wine. Let me make Mr. Stewart 
known to you.” And he lifted a shaking hand as if to introduce 
them. 

The magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth. 

“Tt is no use, Sir Nicholas,” he said, “this gentleman, I fear, 
is well known to some of us already.—No, no, sir,” he cried 
sharply, “the window is guarded.” 

Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at 
the window, faced the magistrate again. 

“I do not know what you mean, sir,” he said. ‘It was a lad 
who passed the window.” 

There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate 
stepped to the door. 

“Who is there?” he cried out sharply. 

There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy’s voice; and a man 
appeared, holding Anthony by the arm. 

Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a 
perfectly natural voice, ‘‘Why, Anthony, my lad!” 

There was a murmur from one or two of the men. 

“Silence,” called out the magistrate. ‘‘We will finish the other 
affair first,’ and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a 
moment.—‘‘Now then, do any of you men know this gentleman?” 

A pursuivant stepped out. 

“Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names—Mr. Chap- 
man and Mr. Wode. He is a popish agent. I saw him in the 
company of Dr. Storey in Antwerp, four months ago.” 

Mr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously. 

“Pooh,” he said: and then turned to the man and bowed 
ironically. 

“T congratulate you, my man,” he said, in a tone of bitter 


THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART 85 


triumph. “In April I was in France. Kindly remember this 
man’s words, Mr. Frankland; they will tell in my favour. For I 
presume you mean to take me.” 

“TY will remember them,” said the magistrate. 

Mr, Stewart bowed to him; he had completely regained his 
composure. Then he turned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, 
who had been watching in a bewildered silence. 

“T am exceedingly sorry,” he said, “for having brought this 
annoyance on you, Lady Maxwell; but these men are so sharp 
that they see nothing but guilt everywhere. I do not know yet 
what my crime is. But that can wait. Sir Nicholas, we should 
have parted anyhow in half an hour. We shall only say good-bye 
here, instead of at the door.” 

The magistrate smiled again as before; and half put up his hand 
to hide it. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chapman; but you need not part 
from Sir Nicholas yet. I fear, Sir Nicholas, that I shall have to 
trouble you to come with us.” 

Lady Maxwell drew a quick hissing breath; her sister got up 
swiftly and went to her, as she sat down in Sir Nicholas’ chair, 
still holding the old man’s hand. 

Sir Nicholas turned to his guest; and his voice broke again 
and again as he spoke. 

“Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I am sorry that any guest of mine 
should be subject to these insults. However, I am glad that I 
shall have the pleasure of your company after all. I suppose we 
ride to East Grinsted,” he added harshly to the magistrate, who 
bowed to him.—‘‘Then may I have my servant, sir?” 

“Presently,” said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, 
who had been staring wild-eyed at the scene, ‘‘Now who is this?” 

A man answered from the rank. 

“That is Master Anthony Norris, sir.” 

“Ah! and who is Master Anthony Norris? A Papist, too?” 

“No, sir,” said the man again, “a good Protestant; and the 
son of Mr. Norris at the Dower House.” 

“Ah!” said the magistrate again, judicially. ‘‘And what might 
you be wanting here, Master Anthony Norris?” 

Anthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and 
that he wanted nothing. The magistrate eyed him a moment 
or two. 

“Well, I have nothing against you, young gentleman. But I 
cannot let you go, till I am safely set out. You might rouse the 


86 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


village. Take him out till we start,’’ he added to the man who 
guarded him. 

“Come this way, sir,” said the officer; and Anthony presently 
found himself sitting on the long oak bench that ran across the 
western end of the hall, at the foot of the stairs, and just opposite 
the door of Sir Nicholas’ room where he had just witnessed that 
curious startling scene. 

The man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, 
and did not trouble him further, and Anthony watched in silence. 

The hall was still dark, except for one candle that had been 
lighted by the magistrate’s party, and it looked sombre and sug- 
gestive of tragedy. Floor walls and ceiling were all dark oak, 
and the corners were full of shadows. A streak of light came 
out of the slightly opened door opposite, and a murmur of voices. 
The rest of the house was quiet; it had all been arranged and 
carried out without disturbance. 

Anthony had a very fair idea of what was going forward; he 
knew of course that the Catholics were always under suspicion, 
and now understood plainly enough from the conversation he had 
heard that the reddish-haired young man, standing so alert and 
cheerful by the table in there, had somehow precipitated matters. 
Anthony himself had come up on some trifling errand, and had 
run straight into this affair; and now he sat and wondered resent- 
fully, with his eyes and ears wide open. 

There were men at all the inner doors now; they had slipped 
in from the outer entrances as soon as word had reached them 
that the prisoners were secured, and only a couple were left out- 
side to prevent the alarm being raised in the village. These 
inner sentinels stood motionless at the foot of the stairs that rose 
up into the unlighted lobby overhead, at the door that led to the 
inner hall and the servants’ quarters, and at those that led to the 
cloister wing and the garden respectively. 

The murmur of voices went on in the room opposite; and 
presently a man slipped out and passed through the sentinels to 
the door leading to the kitchens and pantry; he carried a pike 
in his hand, and was armed with a steel cap and breast-piece. In 
a minute he had returned followed by Mr. Boyd, Sir Nicholas’ 
body-servant; the two passed into the study—and a moment 
later the dark inner hall was full of moving figures and rustlings 
and whisperings, as the alarmed servants poured up from down- 
stairs. 

Then the study door opened again, and Anthony caught a 


P] 


THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART 87 


glimpse of the lighted room; the two ladies with Sir Nicholas 
and his guest were seated at table; there was the figure of an 
armed man behind Mr. Stewart’s chair, and another behind Lady 
Maxwell’s; then the door closed again as Mr. Boyd with the 
magistrate and a constable carrying a candle came out. 

“This way, sir,” said the servant; and the three crossed the 
hall, and passing close by Anthony, went up the broad oak stair- 
case that led to the upper rooms. Then the minutes passed away; 
from upstairs came the noise of doors opening and shutting, and 
footsteps passing overhead; from the inner hall the sound of 
low talking, and a few sobs now and again from a frightened 
maid; from Sir Nicholas’ room all was quiet except once when 
Mr. Stewart’s laugh, high and natural, rang out. Anthony 
thought of that strong brisk face he had seen in the candlelight; 
and wondered how he could laugh, with death so imminent— 
and worse than death; and a warmth of admiration and respect 
glowed at the lad’s heart. The man by Anthony sighed and 
shifted his feet. 

“What is it for?” whispered the lad at last. 

“T mustn’t speak to you, sir,” said the man. 

At last the footsteps overhead came to the top of the stairs. 
The magistrate’s voice called out sharply and impatiently: 

“Come along, come along’; and the three, all carrying bags 
and valises, came downstairs again and crossed the hall. Again 
the door opened as they went in, leaving the luggage on the floor; 
and Anthony caught another glimpse of the four still seated round 
the table; but Sir Nicholas’ head was bowed upon his hands. 

Then again the door closed; and there was silence. 

Once more it was flung open, and Anthony saw the interior 
of the room plainly. The four were standing up, Mr. Stewart 
was bowing to Lady Maxwell; the magistrate stood close beside 
him; then a couple of men stepped up to the young man’s side 
as he turned away, and the three came out into the hall and stood 
waiting by the little heap of luggage. Mr. Frankland came next, 
with the man-servant close beside him, and the rest of the men 
behind; and the last closed the door and stood by it. There was 
a dead silence; Anthony sprang to his feet in uncontrollable 
excitement. What was happening? Again the door opened, and 
the men made room as Mistress Margaret came out, and the 
door shut. 

She came swiftly across, with her little air of dignity and confi- 
dence, towards Anthony, who was standing forward. 


88 ~ BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Why, Master Anthony,” she said, ‘dear lad; I did not know 
they had kept you,” and she took his hand. 

“What is it, what is it?” he whispered sharply. 

“Flush,” she said; and the two stood together in silence. 

The moments passed; Anthony could hear the quick thumping 
beat of his own heart, and the breathing of Mistress Margaret; 
but the hall was perfectly quiet, where the magistrate with the 
prisoner and his men stood in an irregular dark group with the 
candle behind them; and no sound came from the room beyond. 

Then the handle turned, and a crack of light showed; but no 
further sound; then the door opened wide, a flood of light poured 
out and Sir Nicholas tottered into the hall. 

“Margaret, Margaret,” he cried, ‘““‘Where are you? Go to her.” 

There was a strange moaning sound from the brightly lighted 
room. The old lady dropped Anthony’s hand and moved swiftly 
and unfalteringly across, and once more the door closed be- 
hind her. 

There was a sharp word of command from the magistrate, and 
the sentries from every door left their posts, and joined the group 
which, with Sir Nicholas and his guest and Mr. Boyd in the 
centre, now passed out through the garden door. 

The magistrate paused as he saw Anthony standing there alone. 

“T can trust you, young gentleman,” he said, “not to give the 
alarm till we are gone?” 

Anthony nodded, and the magistrate passed briskly out on to 
the terrace, shutting the door behind him; there was a rush of 
footsteps and a murmur of voices and the hall was filled with the 
watching servants. 

As the chorus of exclamations and inquiries broke out, Anthony 
ran straight through the crowd to the garden door, and on to the 
terrace. They had gone to the left, he supposed, but he hesitated 
a moment to listen; then he heard the stamp of horses’ feet and 
the jingle of saddlery, and saw the glare of torches through the 
yew hedge; and he turned quickly and ran along the terrace, past 
the flood of light that poured out from the supper room, and 
down the path that led to the side-door opposite the Rectory. It . 
was very dark, and he stumbled once or twice; then he came to 
the two or three stairs that led down to the door in the wall, 
and turned off among the bushes, creeping on hands and feet till 
he reached the wall, low on this side, but deep on the other; and 
looked over. 

The pursuivants with their men had formed a circle round 


THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART 89 


the two prisoners, who were already mounted and who sat looking 
about them as the luggage was being strapped to their saddles; 
the bridles were lifted forward over the horses’ heads, and a 
couple of the guard held each rein. The groom who had brought 
round the two horses for Mr. Stewart and himself stood white- 
faced and staring, with his back to the Rectory wall. The magis- 
trate was just mounting at a little distance his own horse, which 
was held by the Rectory boy. Mr. Boyd, it seemed, was to 
walk with the men. Two or three torches were burning by now, 
and every detail was distinct to Anthony, as he crouched among 
the dry leaves and peered down on to the group just beneath. 

Sir Nicholas’ face was turned away from him; but his head 
was sunk on his breast, and he did not lift it as his horse 
stamped at the strapping on of the valise Mr. Boyd had packed 
for him. Mr. Stewart sat erect and motionless, and his face as 
Anthony saw it was confident and fearless. 

Then suddenly the door in the Rectory wall opposite was flung 
open, and a figure in flying black skirts, but hatless, rushed out 
and through the guard straight up to the old man’s knee. There 
was a shout from the men and a movement to pull him off, but 
the magistrate spoke sharply, and the men fell back. 

“Oh, Sir Nicholas,” sobbed the minister, his face half buried 
in the saddle. Anthony saw his shoulders shaking and his hands 
clutching at the old man’s knee. “Forgive me, forgive me.” 

There was no answer from Sir Nicholas; he still sat unmoved 
as the Rector sobbed and moaned at his stirrup. 

“There, there,’”’ said the magistrate decidedly, over the heads of 
the guard, “that is enough, Mr. Dent’; and he made a motion 
with his hand. 

A couple of men took the minister by the shoulders and drew 
him, still crying out to Sir Nicholas, outside the group; and he 
stood there dazed and groping with his hands. There was a word 
of command; and the guard moved off at a sharp walk, with the 
horses in the centre, and as they turned, the lad saw in the torch- 
light the old man’s face drawn and wrinkled with sorrow, and 
great tears running down it. 

The Rector leaned against his own wall, with his hands over 
his face; and Anthony looked at him with growing suspicion and 
_ terror as the flare of the torches on the trees faded, and the noise 
of the troop died away round the corner. 


CHAPTER IX 
VILLAGE JUSTICE 


Tue village had never known such an awakening as on the morn- 
ing that followed Sir Nicholas’ arrest. Before seven o’clock 
every house knew it, and children ran half-dressed to the outlying 
hamlets to tell the story. Very little work was done that day, 
for the estate was disorganised; and the men had little heart 
for work; and there were groups all day on the green, which 
formed and re-formed and drifted here and there and discussed 
and sifted the evidence. It was soon known that the Rectory 
household had had a foremost hand in the affair. The groom, who 
had been present at the actual departure of the prisoners, had 
told the story of the black figure that ran out of the door, and 
of what was cried at the old man’s knee; and how he had not 
moved nor spoken in answer; and Thomas, the Rectory boy, was 
stopped as he went across the green in the evening and threatened 
and encouraged until he told of the stroke on the church-bell, and 
the Rectory key, and the little company that had sat all the 
afternoon in the kitchen over their ale. He told too how a couple 
of hours ago he had been sent across with a note to Lady Maxwell, 
and that it had been returned immediately unopened. 

So as night fell, indignation had begun to smoulder fiercely 
against the minister, who had not been seen all day; and after 
dark had fallen the name “Judas” was cried in at the Rectory 
door half a dozen times, and a stone or two from the direction 
of the churchyard had crashed on the tiles of the house. 

Mr. Norris had been up all day at the Hall, but he was the 
only visitor admitted. All day long the gate-house was kept 
closed, and the same message was given to the few horsemen 
and carriages that came to inquire after the truth of the report 
from the Catholic houses round, to the effect that it was true that 
Sir Nicholas and a friend had been taken off to London by the 
Justice from East Grinsted; and that Lady Maxwell begged the 
prayers of her friends for her husband’s safe return. 

Anthony had ridden off early with a servant, at his father’s 


90 


VILLAGE JUSTICE OI 


wish, to follow Sir Nicholas and learn any news of him that was 
possible, to do him any service he was able, and to return or 
send a message the next day down to Great Keynes; and 
early in the afternoon he returned with the information that Sir 
Nicholas was at the Marshalsea, that he was well and happy, 
that he sent his wife his dear love, and that she should have a 
letter from him before nightfall. He rode straight to the Hall 
with the news, full of chastened delight at his official importance, 
just pausing to tell a group that was gathered on the green that 
all was well so far, and was shown up to Lady Maxwell’s own 
parlour, where he found her, very quiet and self-controlled, and 
extremely grateful for his kindness in riding up to London and 
back on her account. Anthony explained too that he had been 
able to get Sir Nicholas one or two comforts that the prison did 
not provide, a pillow and an extra coverlet and some fruit; and 
he left her full of gratitude. 

His father had been up to see the ladies two or three times, 
and in spite of the difference in religion had prayed with them, 
and talked a little; and Lady Maxwell had asked that Isabel 
might come up to supper and spend the evening. Mr. Norris 
promised to send her up, and then added: 

“T am a little anxious, Lady Maxwell, lest the people may show 
their anger against the Rector or his wife, about what has 
happened.” 

Lady Maxwell looked startled. 

“They have been speaking of it all day long,” he said, “they 
know everything; and it seems the Rector is not so much to blame 
as his wife. It was she who sent for the magistrate and gave 
him the key and arranged it all; he was only brought into it too 
late to interfere or refuse.” 

“Have you seen him?” asked the old lady. 

“T have been both days,” he said, ‘‘but he will not see me; he 
is in his study, locked in.” 

“TI may have treated him hardly,” she said, “‘I would not open 
his note; but at least he consented to help them against his 
friend.” And her old eyes filled with tears. 

“T fear that is so,”’ said the other sadly. 

“But speak to the people,” she said, “I think they love my 
husband, and would do nothing to grieve us; tell them that 
nothing would pain either of us more than that any should suffer 
for this. Tell them they must do nothing, but be patient and 


pray.” 


92 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


There was a group still on the green near the pond as Isabel 
came up to supper that evening about six o’clock. Her father, 
who had given Lady Maxwell’s message to the people an hour or 
two before, had asked her to go that way and send down a mes- 
sage to him immediately if there seemed to be any disturbance 
or threatening of it; but the men were very quiet. Mr. Musgrave 
was there, she saw, sitting with his pipe, on the stocks, and Piers, 
the young Irish bailiff, was standing near; they all were silent as 
the girl came up, and saluted her respectfully as usual; and she 
saw no signs of any dangerous element. There were one or two 
older women with the men, and others were standing at their 
open doors on all sides as she went up. The Rectory gate was 
locked, and no one was to be seen within. 

Supper was laid in Sir Nicholas’ room, as it generally was, 
and as it had been two nights ago; and it was very strange to 
Isabel to know that it was here that the arrest had taken place; 
the floor, too, she noticed as she came in, all about the threshold 
was scratched and dented by rough boots. 

Lady Maxwell was very silent and distracted during supper; 
she made efforts to talk again and again, and her sister did her 
best to interest her and keep her talking; but she always relapsed 
after a minute or two into silence again, with long glances round 
the room, at the Vernacle over the fireplace, the prie-dieu with 
the shield of the Five Wounds above it, and all the things that 
spoke so keenly of her husband. 

What a strange room it was, too, thought Isabel, with its odd 
mingling of the two worlds, with the tapestry of the hawking 
scene and the stiff herons and ladies on horseback on one side, 
and the little shelf of devotional books on the other; and yet how 
characteristic of its owner who fingered his cross-bow or the 
reins of his horse all day, and his beads in the evening; and how 
strange that an old man like Sir Nicholas, who knew the world, 
and had as much sense apparently as any one else, should be 
willing to sacrifice home and property and even life itself, for 
these so plainly empty superstitious things that could not please 
a God that was Spirit and Truth! So Isabel thought to herself, 
with no bitterness or contempt, but just a simple wonder and 
amazement, as she looked at the painted tokens and trinkets. 

It was still daylight when they went upstairs to Lady Maxwell’s 
room about seven, but the clear southern sky over the yew hedges 
and the tall elms where the rooks were circling, was beginning 
to be flushed with deep amber and rose. Isabel sat down in the 


VILLAGE JUSTICE 93 


window seat with the sweet air pouring in and looked out on the 
garden with its tiled paths and its cool green squares of lawn, 
and the glowing beds at the sides. Over to her right the cloister 
court ran out, with its two rows of windows, bedrooms above with 
galleries beyond, as she knew, and parlours and cloisters below; 
the pleasant tinkle of the fountain in the court came faintly to 
her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elms and the low 
- sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Other- 
wise the evening was very still; the two old ladies were sitting 
near the fireplace; Lady Maxwell had taken up her embroidery, 
and was looking at it listlessly, and Mistress Margaret had one of 
her devotional books and was turning the pages, pausing here 
and there as she did so. 

Presently she began to read, without a word of introduction, 
one of the musings of the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, 
and as the tender lines stepped on, that restless jewelled hand 
grew still. 


“As I lay sick in my languor 
In an abbey here by west; 

This book I made with great dolour, 
When I might not sleep nor rest. 

Oft with my prayers my soul I blest, 
And said aloud to Heaven’s King, 

‘I know, O Lord, it is the best 
Meekly to take thy visiting, 

Else well I wot that I were lorn 

(High above all lords be he blest!) 
All that thou dost is for the best; 

By fault of Thee was no man lost, 
That is here of woman born.’ ” 


And then she read some of Rolle’s verses to Jesus, the “friend 
of all sick and sorrowful souls,” and a meditation of his on 
the Passion, and the tranquil thoughts and tender fragrant sorrows 
soothed the torn throbbing soul; and Isabel saw the old wrinkled 
hand rise to her forehead, and the embroidery, with the needle 
still in it slipped to the ground; as the holy Name “‘like ointment 
poured forth” gradually brought its endless miracle and made all 
sweet and healthful again. 

Outside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead 
was deepening to a glowing blue as the sunset contracted on the 
western horizon to a few vivid streaks of glory; the room was 
growing darker every moment; and Mistress Margaret’s voice 
began to stumble over words. The great gilt harp in the corner 


94 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


only gleamed here and there now in single lines of clear gold 
where the dying daylight fell on the strings. The room was full 
of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Child had 
darkened into obscurity in their niche. The world was silent now 
too; the rooks were gone home and the stir of the household below 
had ceased; and in a moment more Mistress Margaret’s voice 
had ceased too, as she laid the book down. 

Then, as if the world outside had waited for silence before . 
speaking, there came a murmur of sound from the further side 
of the house. Isabel started up; surely there was anger in that 
low roar from the village; was it this that her father had feared? 
Had she been remiss? Lady Maxwell too sprang up and faced 
the window with wide large eyes. 

“The letter!” she said; and took a quick step towards the 
door; but Mistress Margaret was with her instantly, with her 
arm about her. 

“Sit down, Mary,” she said, ‘“‘they will bring it at once”; and 
her sister obeyed; and she sat waiting and looking towards the 
door, clasping and unclasping her hands as they lay on her 
lap; and Mistress Margaret stood by her, waiting and watching 
too. Isabel still stood by the window listening. Had she been 
mistaken then? The roar had sunk into silence for a moment; 
and there came back the quick beat of a horse’s hoofs outside on 
the short drive between the gatehouse and the Hall. They were 
right, then; and even as she thought it, and as the wife that 
waited for news of her husband drew a quick breath and half 
rose in her seat at the sound of that shod messenger that bore 
them, again the roar swelled up louder than ever; and Isabel 
sprang down from the low step of the window-seat into the dusky 
room where the two sisters waited. 

“What is that? What is that?” she whispered sharply. 

There was a sound of opening doors, and of feet that ran in 
the house below; and Lady Maxwell rose up and put out her 
hand, as a man-servant dashed in with a letter. 

“My lady,” he said panting, and giving it to her, “they are 
attacking the Rectory.” 

Lady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light 
to read her husband’s letter, paused at that. 

“The Rectory?” she said. “‘Why—Margaret ” then she 
stopped, and Isabel close beside her, saw her turn irresolutely 
from the great sealed letter in her hand to the door, and back 
again. 





VILLAGE JUSTICE 95 


“Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through— 
they were breaking down the gate.” 

Then Lady Maxwell, with a quick movement, lifted the letter 
to her lips and kissed it, and thrust it down somewhere out of 
sight in the folds of her dress. 

“Come, Margaret,” she said. 

Isabel followed them down the stairs and out through the 
hall-door; and there, as they came out on to the steps that savage 
snarling roar swelled up from the green. There was laughter 
and hooting mixed with that growl of anger; but even the laughter 
was fierce. The gatehouse stood up black against the glare of 
torches, and the towers threw great swinging shadows on the 
ground and the steps of the Hall. 

Isabel followed the two grey glimmering figures, and was aston- 
ished at the speed with which she had to go. The hoofs of the 
courier’s horse rang on the cobbles of the stable-yard as they 
came down towards the gatehouse, and the two wings of the door 
were wide-open through which he had passed just now; but the 
porter was gone. 

Ah! there was the crowd; but not at the Rectory. On the right 
the Rectory gate lay wide open, and a flood of light poured out 
from the house-door at the end of the drive. Before them lay 
the dark turf, swarming with black figures towards the lower 
end; and a ceaseless roar came from them. There were half a 
dozen torches down there, tossing to and fro; Isabel saw that 
the crowd was still moving down towards the stocks and the 
pond. 

Now the two ladies in front of her were just coming up with 
the skirts of the crowd; and there was an exclamation or two of 
astonishment as the women and children saw who it was that was 
coming. Then there came the furious scream of a man, and the 
crowd parted, as three men came reeling out together, two of 
them trying with all their power to restrain a fighting, kicking, 
plunging man in long black skirts, who tore and beat with his 
hands. The three ladies stopped for a moment, close together; 
and simultaneously the struggling man broke free and dashed 
back into the crowd, screaming with anger and misery. 

“Marion, Marion—I am coming—O God!” 

And Isabel saw with a shock of horror that sent her crouching 
and clinging close to Mistress Margaret, that it was the Rector. 
But the two men were after him and caught him by the shoulders 
as he disappeared; and as they turned they faced Lady Maxwell. 


96 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“My lady, my lady,” stammered one, “we mean him no harm. 
We ” But his voice stopped, as there came a sudden silence, 
rent by a high terrible shriek and a splash; followed in a moment 
by a yell of laughter and shouting; and Lady Maxwell threw her- 
self into the crowd in front. 

There were a few moments of jostling in the dark, with the 
reek and press of the crowd about her; and Isabel found herself 
on the brink of the black pond, with Lady Maxwell on one side, 
and Piers on the other keeping the crowd back, and a dripping 
figure moaning and sobbing in the trampled mud at Lady Max- 
well’s feet. There was silence enough now, and the ring of faces 
opposite stared astonished and open-mouthed at the tall old 
lady with her grey veiled head upraised, as she stood there 
in the torchlight and rated them in her fearless indignant 
voice. 

“YT am ashamed, ashamed!” cried Lady Maxwell. “I thought 
you were men. I thought you loved my husband; and—and me.” 
Her voice broke, and then once more she cried again. “I am 
ashamed, ashamed of my village.” 

And then she stooped to that heaving figure that had crawled 
up, and laid hold tenderly of the arms that were writhed about 
her feet. 

‘““Come home, my dear,” Isabel heard her whisper. 

It was a strange procession homeward up the trampled turf. 
The crowd had broken into groups, and the people were awed 
and silent as they watched the four women go back together. 
Isabel walked a little behind with her father and Anthony, who 
had at last been able to come forward through the press and 
join them; and a couple of the torchbearers escorted them. In 
front went the three, on one side Lady Maxwell, her lace and 
silk splashed and spattered with mud, and her white hands black 
with it, and on the other the old nun, each with an arm thrown 
round the woman in the centre who staggered and sobbed and 
leaned against them as she went, with her long hair and her 
draggled clothes streaming with liquid mud every step she took. 
Once they stopped, at a group of three men. The Rector was 
sitting up, in his torn dusty cassock, and Isabel saw that one of 
his buckled shoes was gone, as he sat on the grass with his feet 
before him, but quiet now, with his hands before him, and a 
dazed stupid look in his little black eyes that blinked at the light 
of the torch that was held over him; he said nothing as he looked 
at his wife between the two ladies, but his lips moved, and his 





VILLAGE JUSTICE 97 


eyes wandered for a moment to Lady Maxwell’s face, and then 
back to his wife. 

“Take him home presently,” she said to the men who were 
with him—and then passed on again. 

As they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to 
Mistress Margaret’s side. 

“Shall I come?” she whispered; and the nun shook her head; 
so she with her father and brother stood there to watch, with 
the crowd silent and ashamed behind. The two torchbearers went 
on, and stood by the steps as the three ladies ascended, leaving 
black footmarks as they went. The door was open and faces of 
servants peeped out, and hands were thrust out to take the burden 
from their mistress, but she shook her head, and the three came in 
together, and the door closed. 

As the Norrises went back silently, the Rector passed them, 
with a little group accompanying him too; he, too, could hardly 
walk alone, so exhausted was he with his furious struggles to 
rescue his wife. 

“Take your sister home,” said Mr. Norris to Anthony; and 
they saw him slip off and pass his arm through the Rector’s, 
and bend down his handsome kindly face to the minister’s staring 
-eyes and moving lips as he too led him homewards. 

Even Anthony was hushed and impressed, and hardly spoke a 
word until he and Isabel turned off down the little dark lane to 
the Dower House. 

“We could do nothing,” he said, “father and I—until Lady 
Maxwell came.” | 

“No,” said Isabel softly, “she only could have done it.” 


CHAPTER X 
A CONFESSOR 


Smr Nicuotas and the party were lodged at East Grinsted the 
night of their arrest, in the magistrate’s house. Although he 
was allowed privacy in his room, after he had given his word 
of honour not to attempt an escape, yet he was allowed no 
conversation with Mr. Stewart or his own servant except in the 
presence of the magistrate or one of the pursuivants; and Mr. 
Stewart, since he was personally unknown to the magistrate, and 
since the charge against him was the graver, was not on any ac- 
count allowed to be alone for a moment, even in the room in 
which he slept. The following day they all rode on to London, 
and the two prisoners were lodged in the Marshalsea. This had 
been for a long while the place where Bishop Bonner was confined; 
and where Catholic prisoners were often sent immediately after 
their arrest; and Sir Nicholas at any rate found to his joy that 
he had several old friends among the prisoners. He was confined 
in a separate room; but by the kindness of his gaoler whom he 
bribed profusely as the custom was, through his servant, he had 
many opportunities of meeting the others; and even of approach- 
ing the sacraments and hearing mass now and then. 

He began a letter to his wife on the day of his arrival and 
finished it the next day. which was Saturday, and it was taken 
down immediately by the courier who had heard the news and 
had called at the prison. In fact, he was allowed a good deal 
of liberty; although he was watched and his conversation listened 
to, a good deal more than he was aware. Mr. Stewart, however, 
as he still called himself, was in a much harder case. The saddle- 
bags had been opened on his arrival, and incriminating docu- 
ments found. Besides the “popish trinkets” they were found to 
contain a number of “seditious pamphlets,” printed abroad for 
distribution in England; for at this time the College at Douai, 
under its founder Dr. William Allen, late Principal of St. Mary’s 
Hall, Oxford, was active in the production of literature; these 
were chiefly commentaries on the Bull; as well as exhortations to 


98 


A: CONFESSOR 99 


the Catholics to stand firm and to persevere in recusancy, and 
to the schismatic Catholics, as they were called, to give over 
attending the services in the parish churches. There were letters 
also from Dr. Storey himself, whom the authorities already had 
in person under lock and key at the Tower. These were quite 
sufficient to make Mr. Stewart a prize; and he also was very 
shortly afterwards removed to the Tower. 

Sir Nicholas wrote a letter at least once a week to his wife; 
but writing was something of a labour to him; it was exceedingly 
doubtful to his mind whether his letters were not opened and 
read before being handed to the courier, and as his seal was 
taken from him his wife could not tell either. However they 
seemed to arrive regularly; plainly therefore the authorities were 
either satisfied with their contents or else did not think them 
worth opening or suppressing. He was quite peremptory that 
his wife should not come up to London; it would only increase 
his distress, he said; and he liked to think of her at Maxwell 
Hall; there were other reasons too that he was prudent enough 
not to commit to paper, and which she was prudent enough to 
guess at, the principal of which was, of course, that she ought 
to be there for the entertaining and helping of other agents or 
priests who might be in need of shelter. 

The old man got into good spirits again very soon. It pleased 
‘him to think that God had honoured him by imprisonment; and 
he said as much once or twice in his letters to his wife. He was 
also pleased with a sense of the part he was playing in the réle of 
a conspirator; and he underlined and put signs and exclamation 
marks all over his letters of which he thought his wife would 
understand the significance, but no one else; whereas in reality 
the old lady was sorely puzzled by them, and the authorities 
who opened the letters generally read them of course like a 
printed book. 

One morning about ten days after his arrival the Governor of 
the prison looked in with the gaoler, and announced to Sir 
Nicholas, after greeting him, that he was to appear before the 
Council that very day. This, of course, was what Sir Nicholas 
desired, and he thanked the Governor cordially for his good news. 

“They will probably keep you at the Tower, Sir Nicholas,” said 
the Governor, “and we shall lose you. However, sir, I hope you 
will be more comfortable there than we have been able to make 
you.” 

The knight thanked the Governor again, and said good-day 


I0o BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


to him with great warmth; for they had been on the best of terms 
with one another during his short detention at the Marshalsea. 

The following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife 
describing his examination. 

“We are in royal lodgings here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd 
brought my luggage over yesterday; and I am settled for the 
present in a room of my own in the White Tower; with a prospect 
over the Court. I was had before my lords yesterday in the 
Council-room; we drove hither from the Marshalsea. There was 
a bay window in the room. I promise you they got little enough 
from me. There was my namesake, Sir Nicholas Bacon, my lords 
Leicester and Pembroke, and Mr. Secretary Cecil; Sir James 
Crofts, the Controller of the Household, and one or two more; 
but these were the principal. I was set before the table on a 
chair alone with none to guard me; but with men at the doors 
I knew very well. My lords were very courteous to me; though 
they laughed more than was seemly at such grave times. ‘They 
questioned me much as to my religion. Was Ia Papist? If they 
meant by that a Catholic, that I was, and thanked God for it 
every day—(those nicknames like me not). Was I then a re- 
cusant? If by that they meant, Did I go to their Genevan 
Hotch-Potch? That I did not nor never would. I thought to 
have said a word here about St. Cyprian his work De Unitate 
Ecclesiae, as F r X. told me, but they would not let me 
speak. Did I know Mr. Chapman? If by that they meant Mr. 
Stewart, that I did, and for a courteous God-fearing gentleman 
too. Was he a Papist, or a Catholic if I would have it so? That 
I would not tell them; let them find that out with their pur- 
suivants and that crew. Did I think Protestants to be fearers 
of God? That I did not; they feared nought but the Queen’s 
Majesty, so it seemed to me. Then they all laughed at once— 
I know not why. Then they grew grave; and Mr. Secretary began 
to ask me questions, sharp and hard; but I would not be put 
upon, and answered him again as he asked. Did I know ought 
of Dr. Storey? Nothing, said I, save that he is a good Catholic, 
and that they had taken him. He 7s a seditious rogue, said my 
Lord Pembroke. That he is not, said I. Then they asked me 
what I thought of the Pope and his Bull, and whether he can 
depose princes. I said I thought him to be the Vicar of Christ; 
and as to his power to depose princes, that I supposed he could do, 
if he said so. Then two or three cried out on me that I had not 
answered honestly; and at that I got wrath; and then they 





A CONFESSOR IOI 


laughed again, at least I saw Sir James Crofts at it. And Mr. 
Secretary, looking very hard at me asked whether if Philip sent 
an armament against Elizabeth to depose her, I would fight for 
him or her Grace. For neither, said I: I am too old. For which 
then would you pray? said they. For the Queen’s Grace, said I, 
for that she was my sovereign. This seemed to content them; 
and they talked a little among themselves. They had asked me 
other questions too as to my way of living; whether I went to 
mass. They asked me too a little more about Mr. Stewart. Did 
I know him to be a seditious rascal? That I did not, said I. 
Then how, asked they, did you come to receive him and his 
pamphlets? Of his pamphlets, said I, I know nothing; I saw 
nothing in his bags save beads and a few holy books and such 
things. (You see, sweetheart, I did him no injury by saying so, 
because I knew that they had his bags themselves.) And I said 
I had received him because he was recommended to me by some 
good friends of mine abroad, and I told them their names too; 
for they are safe in Flanders now. 

“And when they had done their questions they talked again 
for a while; and I was sent out to the antechamber to refresh 
myself; and Mr. Secretary sent a man with me to see that I had 
all I needed; and we talked together a little, and he said the 
Council were in good humour at the taking of Dr. Storey; and 
he had never seen them so merry. Then I was had back again 
presently; and Mr. Secretary said I was to stay in the Tower; 
and that Mr. Boyd was gone already to bring my things. And so 
after that I went by water to the Tower, and here I am, sweet- 
heart, well and cheerful, praise God. 

My dearest, I send you my heart’ S ‘best love. God have you 
in his holy keeping.” 

The Council treated the old knight very tenderly. They were 
shrewd enough to see his character very plainly; and that he 
was a simple man who knew nothing of sedition, but only had 
harboured agents thinking them to be as guileless as himself, 
As a matter of fact, Mr. Stewart was an agent of Dr. Storey’s; 
and was therefore implicated in a number of very grave charges. 
This of course was a very serious matter; but both in the exam- 
ination of the Council, and in papers in Mr. Stewart’s bags, 
nothing could be found to implicate Sir Nicholas in any political 
intrigue at all. The authorities were unwilling too to put such 
a man to the torture. There was always a possibility of public 
resentment against the torture of a man for his religion alone; 


102 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


and they were desirous not to arouse this, since they had many 
prisoners who would be more productive subjects of the rack than 
a plainly simple and loyal old man whose only crime was his 
religion. ‘They determined, however, to make an attempt to get a 
little more out of Sir Nicholas by a device which would excite no 
resentment if it ever transpired, and one which was more suited 
to the old man’s nature and years. 

Sir Nicholas thus described it to his wife. 

“Last night, my dearest, I had a great honour and consolation. 
I was awakened suddenly towards two o’clock in the morning by 
the door of my room opening and a man coming in. It was some- 
what dark, and I could not see the man plainly, but I could see 
that he limped and walked with a stick, and he breathed hard as 
he entered. I sat up and demanded of him who he was and what 
he wanted; and telling me to be still, he said that he was Dr. 
Storey. You may be sure, sweetheart, that I sprang up at that; 
but he would not let me rise; and himself sat down beside me. 
He said that by the kindness of a gaoler he had been allowed to 
come; and that he must not stay with me long; that he had heard 
of me from his good friend Mr. Stewart. I asked him how he 
did, for I heard that he had been racked; and he said yes, it was 
true; but that by the mercy of God and the prayers of the 
saints he had held his peace and they knew nothing from him. 
Then he asked me a great number of questions about the men I 
had entertained, and where they were now; and he knew many 
of their names. Some of them were friends of his own, he said; 
especially the priests. We talked a good while, till the morning 
light began; and then he said he must be gone or the head 
gaoler would know of his visit, and so he went. I wish I could 
have seen his face, sweetheart, for I think him a great servant 
of God; but it was still too dark when he went, and we dared not 
have a light for fear it should be seen.” 

This was as a matter of fact a ruse of the authorities. It was 
not Dr. Storey at all who was admitted to Sir Nicholas’ prison, 
but Parker, who had betrayed him at Antwerp. It was so suc- 
cessful, for Sir Nicholas told him all that he knew (which was 
really nothing at all) that it was repeated a few months later 
with richer results; when the conspirator Bailey, hysterical and 
almost beside himself with the pain of the rack, under similar 
circumstances gave up a cypher which was necessary to the 
Council in dealing with the correspondence of Mary Stuart. 
However, Sir Nicholas never knew the deception, and to the end 


A CONFESSOR 103 


of his days was proud that he had actually met the famous Dr. 
Storey, when they were both imprisoned in the Tower together, 
and told his friends of it with reverent pride when the doctor 
was hanged a year later. 

Hubert, who had been sent for to take charge of the estate, 
had come to London soon after his father’s arrival at the Tower; 
and was allowed an interview with him in the presence of the 
Lieutenant. Hubert was greatly affected; though he could not 
look upon the imprisonment with the same solemn exultation as 
that which his father had; but it made a real impression upon him 
to find that he took so patiently this separation from home and 
family for the sake of religion. Hubert received instructions from 
Sir Nicholas as to the management of the estate, for it was be- 
coming plain that his father would have to remain in the Tower 
for the present; not any longer on a really grave charge, but 
chiefly because he was an obstinate recusant and would promise 
nothing. The law and its administration at this time were very 
far apart; the authorities were not very anxious to search out 
and punish those who were merely recusants or refused to take 
the oath of supremacy; and so Hubert and Mr. Boyd and other 
Catholics were able to come and go under the very nose of justice 
without any real risk to themselves; but it was another matter 
to let a sturdy recusant go from prison who stoutly refused to give 
any sort of promise or understanding as to future behaviour. 

Sir Nicholas was had down more than once to further examina- 
tion before the Lords Commissioners in the Lieutenant’s house; 
_ Sut it was a very tame and even an amusing affair for all save 
Sir Nicholas. It was so easy to provoke him; he was so simole 
and passionate that they could get almost anything they wanted! 
out of him by a little adroit baiting; and more than onc: his 
examination formed a welcome and humorous entr’acte between 
two real tragedies. Sir Nicholas, of course, never suspected for 
a moment that he was affording any amusement to any one. He 
thought their weary laughter to be sardonic and ironical, and he 
looked upon himself as a very desperate fellow indeed; and wrote 
glowing accounts of it all to his wife, full of apostrophic praises 
to God and the saints, in a hand that shook with excitement and 
awe at the thought of the important scenes in which he played so 
prominent a part. 

But there was no atmosphere of humour about Mr. Stewart. 
He had disappeared from Sir Nicholas’ sight on their arrival at 
the Marshalsea, and they had not set eyes on one another since; 


104 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


nor could all the knight’s persuasion and offer of bribes make his 
gaoler consent to take any message or scrap of paper between 
them. He would not even answer more than the simplest in- 
quiries about him,—that he was alive and in the Tower, and so 
forth; and Sir Nicholas prayed often and earnestly for that 
deliberate and vivacious young man who had so charmed and 
interested them all down at Great Keynes, and who had been so 
mysteriously engulfed by the sombre majesty of the law. 

“T fear,” he wrote to Lady Maxwell, “I fear that our friend 
must be sick or dying. But I can hear no news of him; when I 
am allowed sometimes to walk in the court or on the leads he is 
never there. My attendant Mr. Jakes looks glum and says noth- 
ing when I ask him how my friend does. My dearest, do 
not forget him in your prayers nor your old loving husband 
eitner.. 

One evening late in October Mr. Jakes did not come as usual 
to bring Sir Nicholas his supper at five o’clock; the time passed 
and still he did not come. This was very unusual. Presently 
Mrs. Jakes appeared instead, carrying the food which she set 
down at the door while she turned the key behind her. Sir 
Nicholas rallied her on having turned gaoler; but she turned on 
him a face with red eyes and lined with weeping. 

“OQ Sir Nicholas,” she said, for these two were good friends, 
‘““what a wicked place this is! God forgive me for saying so; 
but they’ve had that young man down there since two o’clock; 
and Jakes is with them to help; and he told me to come up to you, 
Sir Nicholas, with your supper, if they weren’t done by five; and 
if the young gentleman hadn’t said what they wanted.” 

Sir Nicholas felt sick. 

“Who is it?” he asked. 

“Why, who but Mr. Stewart?” she said; and then fell weeping 
again, and went out forgetting to lock the door behind her in her 
grief. Sir Nicholas sat still a moment, sick and shaken; he knew 
what it meant; but it had never come so close to him before. He 
got up presently and went to the door to listen for he knew not 
what. But there was no sound but the moan of the wind up the 
draughty staircase, and the sound of a prisoner singing somewhere 
above him a snatch of a song. He looked out presently, but there 
was nothing but the dark well of the staircase disappearing round 
to the left, and the glimmer of an oil lamp somewhere from the 
depths below him, with wavering shadows as the light was blown 
about by the gusts that came up from outside. There was nothing 


A CONFESSOR 105 


to be done of course; he closed the door, went back and prayed 
with all his might for the young man who was somewhere in this 
huge building, in his agony. 

Mr. Jakes came up himself within half an hour to see if all was 
well; but said nothing of his dreadful employment or of Mr. 
Stewart; and Sir Nicholas did not like to ask for fear of getting 
Mrs. Jakes into trouble. The gaoler took away the supper things, 
wished him good-night, went out and locked the door, apparently 
without noticing it had been left undone before. Possibly his 
mind was too much occupied with what he had been seeing and 
doing. And the faithful account of all this went down in due time 
to Great Keynes. 

The arrival of the courier at the Hall on Wednesday and 
Saturday was a great affair both to the household and to the 
village. Sir Nicholas sent his letter generally by the Saturday 
courier, and the other brought a kind of bulletin from Mr. Boyd, 
with sometimes a message or two from his master. These letters 
were taken by the ladies first to the study, as if to an oratory, and 
Lady Maxwell would read them slowly over to her sister. And 
in the evening, when Isabel generally came up for an hour or two, 
the girl would be asked to read them slowly all over again to the 
two ladies who sat over their embroidery on either side of her, 
‘and who interrupted for the sheer joy of prolonging it. And they 
would discuss together the exact significance of all his marks of 
emphasis and irony; and the girl would have all she could do 
sometimes not to feel a disloyal amusement at the transparency 
of the devices and the simplicity of the loving hearts that mar- 
velled at the writer’s depth and ingenuity. But she was none 
the less deeply impressed by his courageous cheerfulness, and 
by the power of a religion that in spite of its obvious weaknesses 
and improbabilities yet inspired an old man like Sir Nicholas 
with so much fortitude. 

At first, too, a kind of bulletin was always issued on the Sunday 
and Thursday mornings, and nailed upon the outside of the 
gatehouse, so that any who pleased could come there and get 
first-hand information; and an interpreter stood there sometimes, | 
one of the educated younger sons of Mr. Piers, and read out to 
the groups from Lady Maxwell’s sprawling old handwriting, news 
of the master. 

“Sir Nicholas has been had before the Council,” he read out 
one day in a high complacent voice to the awed listeners, “and 
has been sent to the Tower of London.” This caused consterna- 


106 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


tion in the village, as it was supposed by the country-folk, not 
without excuse, that the Tower was the antechamber of death; 
but confidence was restored by the further announcement a few 
lines down that ‘“‘he was well and cheerful.” 

Great interest, too, was aroused by more domestic matters. 

“Sir Nicholas,” it was proclaimed, “‘is in a little separate cham- 
ber of his own. Mr. Jakes, his gaoler, seems an honest fellow. 
Sir Nicholas hath a little mattress from a friend that Mr. Boyd 
fetched for him. He has dinner at eleven and supper at five. Sir 
Nicholas hopes that all are well in the village.” 

But other changes had followed the old knight’s arrest. The 
furious indignation in the village against the part that the Rectory 
had played in the matter, made it impossible for the Dents to 
remain there. That the minister’s wife should have been publicly 
ducked, and that not by a few blackguards but by the solid 
fathers and sons with the applause of the wives and daughters, 
made her husband’s position intolerable, and further evidence 
was forthcoming in the behaviour of the people towards the 
Rector himself; some boys had guffawed during his sermon on the 
following Sunday, when he had ventured on a word or two of 
penitence as to his share in the matter, and he was shouted after 
on his way home. 

Mrs. Dent seemed strangely changed and broken during her 
stay at the Hall. She had received a terrible shock, and it was 
not safe to move her back to her own house. For the first two or 
three nights, she would start from sleep again and again scream- 
ing for help and mercy and nothing would quiet her till she was 
wide awake and saw in the firelight the curtained windows and the 
bolted door, and the kindly face of an old servant or Mistress 
Margaret with her beads in her hand. Isabel, who came up to 
see her two or three times, was both startled and affected by the 
change in her; and by the extraordinary mood of humility which 
seemed to have taken possession of the hard self-righteous 
Puritan. 

“IT begged pardon,” she whispered to the girl one evening, sit- 
ting up in bed and staring at her with wide, hard eyes, “I begged 
pardon of Lady Maxwell, though I am not fit to speak to her. 
Do you think she can ever forgive me? Do you think she can? 
It was I, you know, who wrought all the mischief, as I have 
wrought all the mischief in the village all these years. She said 
she did, and she kissed me, and said that our Saviour had for- 
given her much more. But—but do you think she has forgiven 


A CONFESSOR 107 


me?”’ And then again, another night, a day or two before they 
left the place, she spoke to Isabel again. 

“Look after the poor bodies,” she said, “teach them a little 
charity; I have taught them nought but bitterness and malice, so 
they have but given me my own back again. I have reaped what 
I have sown.” 

So the Dents slipped off early one morning before the folks 
were up; and by the following Sunday, young Mr. Bodder, of 
whom the Bishop entertained a high opinion, occupied the little 
desk outside the chancel arch; and Great Keynes once more had 
to thank God and the diocesan that it possessed a proper minister 
of its own, and not a mere unordained reader, which was all that 
many parishes could obtain. 

Towards the end of September further hints began to arrive, 
very much underlined, in the knight’s letters, of Mr. Stewart 
and his sufferings. 

“You remember our friend,” Isabel read out one Saturday eve- 
ning, “not Mr. Stewart. (This puzzled the old ladies sorely till 
Isabel explained their lord’s artfulness.) “My dearest, I fear 
the worst for him. I do not mean apostacy, thank God. But I 
fear that these wolves have torn him sadly, in their dens.’ Then 
followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, with all its horror, all the greater 
from the obscurity of the details. 

Isabel put the paper down trembling, as she sat on the rug 
before the fire in the parlour upstairs, and thought of the bright- 
eyed, red-haired man with his steady mouth and low laugh whom 
Anthony had described to her. 

Lady Maxwell posted upon the gatehouse: 

“Sir Nicholas fears that a friend is in sore trouble; he hopes he 
may not yield.” 

Then, after a few days more, a brief notice with a black line 
drawn round it, that ran, in Mr. Bodder’s despite: 

“Our friend has passed away. Pray for his soul.” 

Sir Nicholas had written in great agitation to this effect. 

“My sweetheart, I have heavy news to-day. There was a great 
company of folks below my window to-day, in the Inner Ward, 
where the road runs up below the Bloody Tower. It was about 
nine of the clock. And there was a horse there whose head I. 
could see; and presently from the Beauchamp Tower came, as I 
thought, an old man between two warders; and then I could not 
very well see; the men were in my way; but soon the horse went 
off, and the men after him; and I could hear the groaning of the 


108 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


crowd that were waiting for them outside. And when Mr, 
Jakes brought me my dinner at eleven of the clock, he told me 
it was our friend—(think of it, my dearest—him whom I thought 
an old man! )—that had been taken off to Tyburn. And now I 
need say no more, but bid you pray for his soul.” 

Isabel could hardly finish reading it; for she heard a quick 
sobbing breath behind her, and felt a wrinkled old hand caressing 
her hair and cheek as her voice faltered. 

Meanwhile Hubert was in town. Sir Nicholas had at first 
intended him to go down at once and take charge of the estate; 
but Piers was very competent, and so his father consented that he 
should remain in London until the beginning of October; and 
this too better suited Mr. Norris’ plans who wished to send Isabel 
off about the same time to Northampton. 

When Hubert at last did arrive, he soon showed himself ex- 
tremely capable and apt for the work. He was out on the estate 
from morning till night on his cob, and there was not a man under © 
him from Piers downwards who had anything but praise for his 
insight and industry. 

There was in Hubert, too, as there so often is in country-boys 
who love and understand the life of the woods and fields, a 
balancing quality of a deep vein of sentiment; and this was now 
consecrated to Isabel Norris. He had pleasant dreams as he 
rode home in the autumn evening, under the sweet keen sky where 
the harvest moon rose large and yellow over the hills to his left 
and shed a strange mystical light that blended in a kind of chord 
with the dying daylight. It was at times like that, when the air 
was fragrant with the scent of dying leaves, with perhaps a touch 
of frost in it, and the cottages one by one opened red glowing eyes 
in the dusk, that the boy began to dream of a home of his own 
and pleasant domestic joys; of burning logs on the hearth and 
lighted candles, and a dear slender figure moving about the room. 
He used to rehearse to himself little meetings and partings; look 
at the roofs of the Dower House against the primrose sky as he 
rode up the fields homewards; identify her window, dark now. 
as she was away; and long for Christmas when she would be back 
again. ‘The only shadow over these delightful pictures was the 
uncertainty as to the future. Where after all would the home 
be? For he was a younger son. He thought about James very 
often. When he came back would he live at home? Would it 
all be James’ at his father’s death, these woods and fields and 
farms and stately house? Would it ever come to him? And 


A CONFESSOR 109 


meanwhile where should he and Isabel live, when the religious 
difficulty had been surmounted, as he had no doubt that it would 
be sooner or later? 

When he thought of his father now, it was with a continually 
increasing respect. He had been inclined to despise him some- 
times before, as one of a simple and uneventful life; but now the 
red shadow of the Law conferred dignity. To have been 
imprisoned in the Tower was a patent of nobility, adding dis- 
tinction and gravity to the commonplace. Something of the 
glory even rested on Hubert himself as he rode and hawked with 
other Catholic boys, whose fathers maybe were equally zealous 
for the Faith, but less distinguished by suffering for it. 

Before Anthony went back to Cambridge, he and Hubert went 
out nearly every day together with or without their hawks. 
Anthony was about three years the younger, and Hubert’s addi- 
tional responsibility for the estate made the younger boy more 
in awe of him than the difference in their ages warranted. Be- 
sides, Hubert knew quite as much about sport, and had more 
opportunities for indulging his taste for it. There was no heronry 
at hand; besides, it was not the breeding time which is the 
proper season for this particular sport; so they did not trouble 
to ride out to one; but the partridges and hares and rabbits that 
abounded in the Maxwell estate gave them plenty of quarreys. 
They preferred to go out generally without the falconer, a Dutch- 
man, who had been taken into the service of Sir Nicholas thirty 
years before when things had been more prosperous; it was less 
embarrassing so; but they would have a lad to carry the “cadge,” 
and a pony following them to carry the game. They added to the 
excitement of the sport by making it a competition between their 
birds; and flying them one after another, or sometimes at the 
same quarry, as in coursing; but this often led to the birds’ 
crabbing. 

Anthony’s peregrine Eliza was almost unapproachable; and 
the lad was the more proud of her as he had ‘“‘made” her himself, 
as an “eyess” or young falcon captured as a nestling. But, on 
the other hand, Hubert’s goshawk Margaret, a fiery little creature, 
named inappropriately enough after his tranquil aunt, as a rule 
did better than Anthony’s Isabel, and brought the scores level 
again. 

There was one superb day that survived long in Anthony’s 
memory and conversation; when he had done exceptionally well, 
when Eliza had surpassed herself, and even Isabel had acquitted 


1IO BY WHAT AUTHORPITY 


herself with credit. It was one of those glorious days of wind 
and sun that occasionally fall in early October, with a pale 
turquoise sky overhead, and air that seems to sparkle and intoxi- 
cate like wine. They went out together after dinner about noon; 
their ponies and spaniels danced with the joy of life; Lady 
Maxwell cried to them from the north terrace to be careful, and 
pointed out to Mr. Norris who had dined with them what a grace-. 
ful seat Hubert had; and then added politely, but as an obvious 
afterthought, that Anthony seemed to manage his pony with 
great address. The boys turned off through the village, and soon 
got on to high ground to the west of the village and all among. 
the stubble and mustard, with tracts of rich sunlit country, of 
meadows and russet woodland below them on every side. Then 
the sport began. It seemed as if Eliza could not make a mistake. 
There rose a solitary partridge forty yards away with a whirl 
of wings; (the coveys were being well broken up by now) 
Anthony unhooded his bird and “cast off,’ with the falconer’s 
cry “Hoo-ha, ha, ha, ha,” and up soared Eliza with the tinkle 
of bells, on great strokes of those mighty wings, up, up, behind 
the partridge that fled low down the wind for his life. The two 
ponies were put to the gallop as the peregrine began to “stoop”; 
and then down like a plummet she fell with closed wings, ‘‘raked”’ 
the quarry with her talons as she passed; recovered herself, and 
as Anthony came up holding out the tabur-stycke, returned to 
him and was hooded and leashed again; and sat there on his 
gloved wrist with wet claws, just shivering slightly from her 
nerves, like the aristocrat she was; while her master stroked her 
ashy back and the boy picked up the quarry, admiring the deep 
rent before he threw it into the pannier. 

Then Hubert had the next turn; but his falcon missed his first 
stoop, and did not strike the quarry till the second attempt, thus 
scoring one to Anthony’s account. Then the peregrines were put 
back on the cadge as the boys got near to a wide meadow in a 
hollow where the rabbits used to feed; and the goshawks Margaret 
and Isabel were taken, each in turn sitting unhooded on her 
master’s wrist, while they all watched the long thin grass for the 
quick movement that marked the passage of a rabbit;—and then 
in a moment the bird was cast off. The goshawk would rise just 
high enough to see the quarry in the grass, then fly straight with 
arched wings and pounces stretched out as she came over the 
quarry; then striking him between the shoulders would close 
with him; and her master would come up and take her off, throw 


A CONFESSOR III 


the rabbit to the game-carrier; and the other would have the next 
attempt. . 

And so they went on for three or four hours, encouraging their 
birds, whooping the death of the quarry, watching with all the 
sportsman’s keenness the soaring and stooping of the peregrines, 
the raking off of the goshawks; listening to the thrilling tinkle of 
the bells, and taking back their birds to sit triumphant and com- 
placent on their master’s wrists, when the quarry had been fairly 
struck, and furious and sullen when it had eluded them two or 
three times till their breath left them in the dizzy rushes, and 
they “canceliered” or even returned disheartened and would fly 
no more till they had forgotten—till at last the shadows grew 
long, and the game more wary, and the hawks and ponies tired; 
and the boys put up the birds on the cadge, and leashed them to 
it securely; and jogged slowly homewards together up the valley 
road that led to the village, talking in technical terms of how the 
merlin’s feather must be “‘imped” to-morrow; and of the relative 
merits of the “varvels” or little silver rings at the end of the 
jesses through which the leash ran, and the Dutch swivel that 
Squire Blackett always used. 

As they got nearer home and the red roofs of the Dower House 
began to glow in the ruddy sunlight above the meadows, Hubert 
began to shift the conversation round to Isabel, and inquire 
when she was coming home. Anthony was rather bored at this 
turn of the talk; but thought she would be back by Christmas 
at the latest; and said that she was at Northampton—and had 
Hubert ever seen such courage as Eliza’s? But Hubert would 
not be put off; but led the talk back again to the girl; and at last 
told Anthony under promise of secrecy that he was fond of 
Isabel, and wished to make her his wife; and oh! did Anthony 
think she cared really for him. Anthony stared and wondered 
and had no opinion at all on the subject; but presently fell in 
love with the idea that Hubert should be his brother-in-law and 
go hawking with him every day; and he added a private romance 
of his own in which he and Mary Corbet should be at the Dower 
House, with Hubert and Isabel at the Hall; while the elders, his 
own father, Sir Nicholas, Mr. James, Lady Maxwell, and Mistress 
Torridon had all taken up submissive and complacent attitudes in 
the middle distance. 

He was so pensive that evening that his father asked him at 
supper whether he had not had a good day; which diverted his 
thoughts from Mistress Corbet, and led him away from senti- 


112 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


ment on a stream of his own talk with long backwaters of descrip- 
tion of this and that stoop, and of exactly the points in which 
he thought the Maxwells’ falconer had failed in the training of 
Hubert’s Jane. 

Hubert found a long letter waiting from his father which Lady 
Maxwell gave him to read, with messages to himself in it about 
the estate, which brought him down again from the treading of 
rosy cloud-castles with a phantom Isabel whither his hawks and 
the shouting wind and the happy day had wafted him, down to 
questions of barns and farm-servants and the sober realities of 
harvest. 





CHAPTER XI 
MASTER CALVIN 


ISABEL reached Northampton a day or two before Hubert came 
back to Great Keynes. She travelled down with two combined 
parties going to Leicester and Nottingham, sleeping at Leighton 
Buzzard on the way; and on the evening of the second day 
reached the house of her father’s friend Dr. Carrington, that stood 
in the Market Square. 

Her father’s intention in sending her to this particular town 
and household was to show her how Puritanism, when carried to 
its extreme, was as orderly and disciplined a system, and was 
able to control the lives of its adherents, as well as the Catholi- 
cism whose influence on her character he found himself beginning 
to fear. But he wished also that she should be repelled to some 
extent by the merciless rigidity she would find at Northampton, 
and thus, after an oscillation or two come to rest in the quiet eclec- 
ticism of that middle position which he occupied himself, 

The town indeed was at this time a miniature Geneva. There 
was something in the temper of its inhabitants that made it espe- 
cially susceptible to the wave of Puritanism that was sweeping 
over England. Lollardy had flourished among them so far back 
as the reign of Richard II; when the mayor, as folks told one 
another with pride, had plucked a mass-priest by the vestment 
on the way to the altar in All Saints’ Church, and had made him 
give over his mummery till the preacher had finished his sermon. 

Dr. Carrington, too, a clean-shaven, blue-eyed, grey-haired 
man, churchwarden of Saint Sepulcher’s, was a representative of 
the straitest views, and desperately in earnest. For him the 
world ranged itself into the redeemed and the damned; these 
two companies were the pivots of life for him; and every subject 
of mind or desire was significant only so far as it bore relations 
to the immutable decrees of God. But his fierce and merciless 
theological insistence was disguised by a real human tenderness 
and a marked courtesy of manner; and Isabel found him a kindly 
and thoughtful host. 

113 


114 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Yet the mechanical strictness of the household, and the over- 
powering sense of the weightiness of life that it conveyed, was a 
revelation to Isabel. Dr. Carrington at family prayers was a tre- 
mendous figure, as he kneeled upright at the head of the table 
in the sombre dining-room; and it seemed to Isabel in her place 
that the pitiless all-seeing Presence that kept such terrifying 
silence as the Doctor cried on Jehovah, was almost a different 
God to that whom she knew in the morning parlour at home, 
to whom her father prayed with more familiarity but no less 
romance, and who answered in the sunshine that lay on the 
carpet, and the shadows-of boughs that moved across it, and the 
chirp of the birds under the eaves. And all day long she thought 
she noticed the same difference; at Great Keynes life was made 
up of many parts, the love of family, the country doings, the 
worship of God, the garden, and the company of the Hall ladies; 
and the Presence of God interpenetrated all like light or fra- 
grance; but here life was lived under the glare of His eye, and 
absorption in any detail apart from the consciousness of that 
encompassing Presence had the nature of sin. 

On the Saturday after her arrival, as she was walking by the 
Nen with Kate Carrington, one of the two girls, she asked her 
about the crowd of ministers she had seen in the streets that 
morning. 

“They have been to the Prophesyings,’ said Kate. “My 
father says that there is no exercise that sanctifies a godly young 
minister so quickly.” 

Kate went on to describe them further. The ministers assem- 
bled each Saturday at nine o’clock, and one of their number gave 
a short Bible-reading or lecture. Then all present were invited 
to join in the discussion; the less instructed would ask questions, 
the more experienced would answer, and debate would run high. 
Such a method, Kate explained, who herself was a zealous and 
well instructed Calvinist, was the surest and swiftest road to 
truth, for every one held the open Scriptures in his hand, and 
interpreted and checked the speakers by the aid of that infallible 
guide. 

“But if a man’s judgment lead him wrong?” asked Isabel, 
who professedly admitted authority to have some place in mat- 
ters of faith. 

‘‘All must hold the Apostles’ Creed first of all,” said Kate, 
“and must set his name to a paper declaring the Pope to be 
antichrist, with other truths upon it.” 


MASTER CALVIN II5 


Isabel was puzzled; for it seemed now as if Private Judgment 
were not supreme among its professors; but she did not care 
to question further. It began to dawn upon her presently, how- 
ever, why the Queen was so fierce against Prophesyings; for she 
saw that they exercised that spirit of exclusiveness, the prop- 
erty of Papist and Puritan alike; which, since it was the antith- 
esis of the tolerant comprehensiveness of the Church of Eng- 
land, was also the enemy of the theological peace that Elizabeth 
was seeking to impose upon the country; and that it was for that 
reason that Papist and Puritan, sundered so far in theology, were 
united in suffering for conscience’ sake. 

On the Sunday morning Isabel went with Mrs. Carrington and 
the two girls to the round Templars’ Church of Saint Sepulchre 
for the Morning Prayer at eight o’clock, and then on to St. Peter’s 
for the sermon. It was the latter function that was important 
in Puritan eyes; for the word preached was considered to have 
an almost sacramental force in the application of truth and grace 
to the soul; and crowds of people, with downcast eyes and in 
sombre dress, were pouring down the narrow streets from all 
the churches round, while the great bell beat out its summons 
from the Norman tower. The church was filled from end to 
end as they came in, meeting Dr. Carrington at the door, and 
they all passed up together to the pew reserved for the church- 
warden, close beneath the pulpit. 

As Isabel looked round her, it came upon her very forcibly 
what she had begun to notice even at Great Keynes, that the 
religion preached there did not fit the church in which it was 
set forth; and that, though great efforts had been made to con- 
form the building to the worship. There had been no half meas- 
ures at Northampton, for the Puritans had a loathing of what they 
called a “mingle-mangle.” Altars, footpaces, and piscine had 
been swept away and all marks of them removed, as well as the 
rood-loft and every image in the building; the stained windows 
had been replaced by plain glass painted white; the walls had 
been whitewashed from roof to floor, and every suspicion of 
colour erased except where texts of Scripture ran rigidly across 
the open wall spaces: “We are not under the Law, but under 
Grace,” Isabel read opposite her, beneath the clerestory windows. 
And, above all, the point to which all lines and eyes converged, 
was occupied no longer by the Table but by the tribunal of the 
Lord. Yet underneath the disguise the old religion triumphed 
still. Beneath the great plain orderly scheme, without depth of 


116 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


shadows, dominated by the towering place of Proclamation where 
the crimson-faced herald waited to begin, the round arches and 
the elaborate mouldings, and the cool depths beyond the pillars, 
all declared that in the God for whom that temple was built, 
there was mystery as well as revelation, Love as well as Justice, 
condescension as well as Majesty, beauty as well as awfulness, 
invitations as well as eternal decrees. 

Isabel looked up presently, as the people still streamed in, 
and watched the minister in his rustling Genevan gown, leaning 
with his elbows on the Bible that rested open on the great tas- 
selled velvet cushion before him. Everything about him was 
on the grand scale; his great hands were clasped and protruded 
over the edge of the Book; and his heavy dark face looked men- 
acingly round on the crowded church; he had the air of a melan- 
choly giant about to engage in some tragic pleasure. But Isabel’s 
instinctive dislike began to pass into positive terror so soon as 
he began to preach. 

When the last comers had found a place, and the talking had 
stopped, he presently gave out his text, in a slow thunderous 
voice, that silenced the last whispers: 

‘What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our 
side, who can be against us?” 

There were a few slow sentences, in a deep resonant voice, 
uttering each syllable deliberately like the explosion of a far-off 
gun, and in a minute or two he was in the thick of Calvin’s smoky 
gospel. Doctrine, voice, and man were alike terrible and over- 
powering. 

There lay the great scheme in a few minutes, seen by Isabel 
as though through the door of hell, illumined by the glare of 
the eternal embers. The huge merciless Will of God stood there 
before her, disclosed in all its awfulness, armed with thunders, 
moving on mighty wheels. ‘The foreknowledge of God closed 
the question henceforth, and, if proof were needed, made pre- 
destination plain. There was man’s destiny, irrevocably fixed, 
iron-bound, changeless and immovable as the laws of God’s own 
being. Yet over the rigid and awful Face of God, flickered a 
faint light, named mercy, and this mercy vindicated its existence 
by demanding that some souls should escape the final and end- 
less doom that was the due reward of every soul conceived and 
born in enmity against God and under the frown of His Justice. 

Then, heralded too by wrath, the figure of Jesus began to 
glimmer through the thunderclouds; and Isabel lifted her eyes, 


MASTER CALVIN 117 


to look in hope. But He was not as she had known him in His 
graciousness, and as He had revealed Himself to her in tender 
communion, and among the flowers and under the clear skies 
of Sussex. Here, in this echoing world of wrath He stood, pale 
and rigid, with lightning in His eyes, and the grim and crimson 
Cross behind him; and as powerless as His own Father Himself 
to save one poor timid despairing hoping soul against whom 
the Eternal Decree had gone forth. Jesus was stern and for- 
bidding here, with the red glare of wrath on His Face too, instead 
of the rosy crown of Love upon His forehead; His mouth was 
closed with compressed lips which surely would only open to 
condemn; not that mouth, quivering and human, that had smiled 
and trembled and bent down from the Cross to kiss poor souls 
that could not hope, nor help themselves, that had smiled upon 
Isabel ever since she had known Him. It was appalling to this 
gentle maiden soul that had bloomed and rejoiced so long in the 
shadow of His healing, to be torn out of her retreat and set 
thus under the consuming noonday of the Justice of this Sun 
of white-hot Righteousness. 

For, as she listened, it was all so miserably convincing; her 
own little essays of intellect and flights of hopeful imagination 
were caught up and whirled away in the strong rush of this man’s 
argument; her timid expectancy that God was really Love, as 
she understood the word in the vision of her Saviour’s person,— 
this was dashed aside as a childish fancy; the vision of the 
Father of the Everlasting Arms receded into the realm of dreams; 
and instead there lowered overhead in this furious tempest of 
wrath a monstrous God with a stony Face and a stonier Heart, 
who was eternally either her torment or salvation; and Isabel 
thought, and trembled at the blasphemy, that if God were such 
as this, the one would be no less agony than the other. Was 
this man bearing false witness, not only against his neighbour, 
but far more awfully, against his God? But it was too convinc- 
ing; it was built up on an iron hammered framework of a great 
man’s intellect and made white hot with another great man’s 
burning eloquence. But it seemed to Isabel now and again as 
if a thunder-voiced virile devil were proclaiming the Gospel of 
Everlasting shame. There he bent over the pulpit with flaming 
face and great compelling gestures that swayed the congregation, 
eliciting the emotions he desired, as the conductor’s baton draws 
out the music (for the man was a great orator), and he stormed 
and roared and seemed to marshal the very powers of the world 


118 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


to come, compelling them by his nod, and interpreting them by 
his voice; and below him sat this poor child, tossed along on his | 
eloquence, like a straw on a flood; and yet hating and resenting 
it and struggling to detach herself and disbelieve every word 
he spoke. 

As the last sands were running out in his hour-glass, he came 
to harbour from this raging sea; and in a few deep resonant 
sentences, like those with which he began, he pictured the peace 
of the ransomed soul, that knows itself safe in the arms of God; 
that rejoices, even in this world, in the Light of His Face and 
the ecstasy of His embrace; that dwells by waters of comfort 
and lies down in the green pastures of the Heavenly Love; while, 
round this little island of salvation in an ocean of terror, the 
thunders of wrath sound only as the noise of surge on a far-off 
reef. 

The effect on Isabel was very great. It was far more startling 
than her visit to London; there her quiet religion had received 
high sanction in the mystery of S. Paul’s. But here it was the 
plainest Calvinism preached with immense power. The preacher’s 
last words of peace were no peace to her. If it was necessary to 
pass those bellowing breakers of wrath to reach the Happy Coun- 
try, then she had never reached it yet; she had lived so far in 
an illusion; her life had been spent in a fool’s paradise, where 
the light and warmth and flowers were but artificial after all; 
and she know that she had not the heart to set out again. Though 
she recognised dimly the compelling power of this religion, and 
that it was one which, if sincerely embraced, would make the 
smallest details of life momentous with eternal weight, yet she 
knew that her soul could never respond to it, and whether saved 
or damned that it could only cower in miserable despair under a 
Deity that was so sovereign as this. 

So her heart was low and her eyes sad as she followed Mrs. 
Carrington out of church. Was this then really the Revelation 
of the Love of God in the Person of Jesus Christ? Had all that 
she knew was the Gospel melted down into this fiery lump? 

The rest of the day did not alter the impression made on her 
mind. There was little talk, or evidence of any human fellowship, 
in the Carrington household on the Lord’s Day; there was a 
word or two of grave commendation on the sermon during dinner; 
and in the afternoon there was the Evening Prayer to be attended 
in St. Sepulchre’s followed by an exposition, and a public cate- 
chising on Calvin’s questions and answers. Here the same awful 


MASTER CALVIN 11g 


doctrines reappeared, condensed with an icy reality, even more 
paralysing than the burning presentation of them in the morn- 
ing’s sermon. She was spared questions herself, as she was a 
stranger; and sat to hear girls of her own age and older men 
and women who looked as soft-hearted as herself, utter defini- 
tions of the method of salvation and the being and character of 
God that compelled the assent of her intellect, while they jarred 
with her spiritual experience as fiercely as brazen trumpets out 
of tune. 

In the evening there followed further religious exercises in the 
dark dining-room, at the close of which Dr. Carrington read one 
of Mr. Calvin’s Genevan discourses, from his tall chair at the 
head of the table. She looked at him at first, and wondered in 
her heart whether that man, with his clear gentle voice, and his 
pleasant old face crowned with iron-grey hair seen in the mellow 
candlelight, really believed in the terrible gospel of the morning; 
for she heard nothing of the academic discourse that he was 
reading now, and presently her eyes wandered away out of the 
windows to the pale night sky. There still glimmered a faint 
streak of light in the west across the Market Square; it seemed 
to her as a kind of mirror of her soul at this moment; the tender 
daylight had faded, though she could still discern the token of 
its presence far away, and as from behind the bars of a cage; 
but the night of God’s wrath was fast blotting out the last touch 
of radiance from her despairing soul. 

Dr. Carrington looked at her with courteous anxiety, but with 
approval too, as he held her hand for a moment as she said 
good-night to him. There were shadows of weariness and de- 
pression under her eyes, and the corners of her mouth drooped 
a little; and the doctor’s heart stirred with hope that the Word 
of God had reached at last this lamb of His who had been fed 
too long on milk, and sheltered from the sun; but who was now 
coming out, driven it might be, and unhappy, but still on its 
way to the plain and wholesome pastures of the Word that lay 
in the glow of the unveiled glory of God. 

Isabel in her dark room upstairs was miserable; she stood 
long at her window, her face pressed against the glass, and looked 
at the sky, from which the last streak of light had now died, 
and longed with all her might for her own oak room at home, 
with her prie-dieu and the familiar things about her; and the 
pines rustling outside in the sweet night-wind. It seemed to 
her as if an irresistible hand had plucked her out from those 


120 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


loved things and places, and that a penetrating eye were exam- 
ining every corner of her soul. In one sense she believed herself 
nearer to God than ever before, but it was heartbreaking to find 
Him like this. She went to sleep with the same sense of a bur- 
dening Presence resting on her spirit. 

The next morning Dr. Carrington saw her privately and ex- 
plained to her a notice that she had not understood when it had 
been given out in church the day before. It was to the effect 
that the quarterly communion would be administered on the fol- 
lowing Sunday, having been transferred that year from the 
Sunday after Michaelmas Day, and that she must hold herself 
in readiness on the Wednesday afternoon to undergo the exam- 
ination that was enforced in every household in Northampton, 
at the hands of the Minister and Churchwardens. 

“But you need not fear it, Mistress Norris,’ he said kindly, 
seeing her alarm. ‘My daughter Kate will tell you all that is 
needful.” 

Kate too told her it would be little more than formal in her 
case. 

“The minister will not ask you much,” she said, “for you are 
a stranger, and my father will vouch for you. He will ask you 
of irresistible grace, and of the Sacrament.’’” And she gave her 
a couple of books from which she might summarise the answers; 
especially directing her attention to Calvin’s Catechism, telling 
her that that was the book with which all the servants and 
apprentices were obliged to be familiar. 

When Wednesday afternoon came, one by one the members of 
the household went before the inquisition that held its court in 
the dining-room; and last of all Isabel’s turn came. The three 
gentlemen who sat in the middle of the long side of the table, 
with their backs to the light, half rose and bowed to her as she 
entered; and requested her to sit opposite to them. To her 
relief it was the Minister of St. Sepulchre’s who was to examine 
her—he who had read the service and discoursed on the Cate- 
chism, not the morning preacher. He was a man who seemed 
a little ill at ease himself; he had none of the superb confidence 
of the preacher; but appeared to be one to whose natural char- 
acter this stern ro/e was not altogether congenial. He asked a 
few very simple questions; as to when she had last taken the 
Sacraments; how she would interpret the words, “This is my 
Body”’; and looked almost grateful when she answered quietly 
and without heat. He asked her too three or four of the simpler 


MASTER CALVIN 121 


questions which Kate had indicated to her; all of which she 
answered satisfactorily; and then desired to know whether she 
was in charity with all men; and whether she looked to Jesus 
Christ alone as her one Saviour. Finally he turned to Dr. Car- 
rington, and wished to know whether Mistress Norris would come 
to the sacrament at five or nine o’clock, and Dr. Carrington 
answered that she would no doubt wish to come with his own wife 
and daughters at nine o’clock; which was the hour for the folks 
who were better to do. And so the inquisition ended much to 
Isabel’s relief. 

But this was a very extraordinary experience to her; it gave 
her a first glimpse into the rigid discipline that the extreme Pur- 
itans wished to see enforced everywhere; and with a sense of 
corporate responsibility that she had not appreciated before; 
the congregation meant something to her now; she was no longer 
alone with her Lord individually, but understood that she was 
part of a body with various functions, and that the care of her 
soul was not merely a personal matter for herself, but involved 
her minister and the officers of the Church as well. It astonished 
her to think that this process was carried out on every individual 
who lived in the town in preparation for the sacrament on the 
following Sunday. 

Isabel, and indeed the whole household, spent the Friday and 
Saturday in rigid and severe preparation. No flesh food was 
eaten on either of the days; and all the members of the family 
were supposed to spend several hours in their own rooms in 
prayer and meditation. She did not find this difficult, as she 
was well practised in solitude and prayer, and she scarcely left 
her room all Saturday except for meals. 

“OQ Lord,” Isabel repeated each morning and evening at her 
bedside during this week, ‘‘the blind dulness of our corrupt nature 
will not suffer us sufficiently to weigh these thy most ample 
benefits, yet, nevertheless, at the commandment of Jesus Christ 
our Lord, we present ourselves to this His table, which Ke hath 
left to be used in remembrance of His death until His coming 
again, to declare and witness before the world, that by Him 
alone we have received liberty and life; that by Him alone dost 
thou acknowledge us to be thy children and heirs; that by Him 
alone we have entrance to the throne of thy grace; that by Him 
alone we are possessed in our spiritual kingdom, to eat and 
drink at His table, with whom we have our conversation pres- 
ently in heaven, and by whom our bodies shall be raised up 


122 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


again from the dust, and shall be placed with Him in that endless 
joy, which Thou, O Father of mercy, has prepared for thine elect, 
before the foundation of the world was laid.” 

And so she prepared herself for that tryst with her Beloved in 
a foreign land where all was strange and unfamiliar about her: 
yet He was hourly drawing nearer, and she cried to Him day by, 
day in these words so redolent to her with associations of past 
communions, and of moments of great spiritual elevation. The 
very use of the prayer this week was like a breeze of flowers to 
one in a wilderness. 

On the Saturday night she ceremoniously washed her feet as 
her father had taught her; and lay down happier than she had 
been for days past, for to-morrow would bring the Lover of 
her soul. 

On the Sunday all the household was astir early at their 
prayers, and about half-past eight o’clock all, including the 
servants who had just returned from the five o’clock service, 
assembled in the dining-room; the noise of the feet of those re- 
turning from church had ceased on the pavement of the square 
outside, and all was quiet except for the solemn sound of the 
bells, as Dr. Carrington offered extempore prayer for all who 
were fulfilling the Lord’s ordinance on that day. And Isabel 
once more felt her heart yearn to a God who seemed Love after all. 

St. Sepulchre’s was nearly full when they arrived. The ma- 
hogany table had been brought down from the eastern wall to 
beneath the cupola, and stood there with a large white cloth, 
descending almost to the ground on every side; and a row of 
silver vessels, flat plates and tall new Communion cups and 
flagons, shone upon it. Isabel buried her face in her hands, and 
tried to withdraw into the solitude of her own soul; but the 
noise of the feet coming and going, and the talking on all sides 
of her, were terribly distracting. Presently four ministers entered 
and Isabel was startled to see, as she raised her face at the 
sudden silence, that none of them wore the prescribed surplice; 
for she had not been accustomed to the views of the extreme 
Puritans to whom this was a remnant of Popery; an indifferent 
thing indeed in itself, as they so often maintained; but far 
from indifferent when it was imposed by authority. One entered 
the pulpit; the other three took their places at the Holy Table; 
and after a metrical Psalm sung in the Genevan fashion, the 
service began. At the proper place the minister in the pulpit 
delivered an hour’s sermon of the type to which Isabel was being 


MASTER CALVIN 123 


now introduced for the first time; but bearing again and again 
on the point that the sacrament was a confession to the world of 
faith in Christ; it was in no sense a sacrificial act towards God, 
‘‘as the Papists vainly taught’; this part of the sermon was 
spoiled, to Isabel’s ears at least, by a flood of disagreeable words 
poured out against the popish doctrine; and the end of the sermon 
consisted of a searching exhortation to those who contemplated 
sin, who bore malice, who were in any way holding aloof from 
God, “‘to cast themselves mightily upon the love of the Redeemer, 
bewailing their sinful lives, and purposing to amend them.” This 
act, wrought out in the silence of the soul, even now would trans- 
fer the sinner from death unto life; and turn what threatened 
to be poison into a “lively and healthful food.”” Then he turned 
to those who came prepared and repentant, hungering and thirst- 
ing after the Bread of Life and the Wine that the Lord had 
mingled; and congratulated them on their possession of grace, 
and on the rich access of sanctification that would be theirs by 
a faithful reception of this comfortable sacrament; and then in 
half a dozen concluding sentences he preached Christ, as ‘food 
to the hungry; a stream to the thirsty; a rest for the weary. It 
is He alone, our dear Redeemer, who openeth the Kingdom of 
Heaven, to which may He vouchsafe to bring us for His Name’s 
sake.” | 

Isabel was astonished to see that the preacher did not descend 
from the pulpit after the sermon, but that as soon as he had 
announced that the mayor would sit at the Town Hall with the 
ministers and churchwardens on the following Thursday to inquire 
into the cases of all who had not presented themselves for Com- 
munion, he turned and began to busy himself with the great 
Bible that lay on the cushion. The service went on, and the 
conducting of it was shared among the three ministers standing, 
one at the centre of the table which was placed endways, and 
the others at the two ends. As the Prayer of Consecration was 
begun, Isabel hid her face as she was accustomed to do, for she 
believed it to be the principal part of the service, and waited for 
the silence that in her experience generally followed the Amen. 
But a voice immediately began from the pulpit, and she looked 
up, startled and distracted. 

“Then Jesus said unto them,” pealed out the preacher’s voice, 
“All ye shall be offended by me this night, for it is written, I 
will smite the shepherd and the sheep shall be scattered. But 
after I am risen, I will go into Galilee before you.” 


124 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Ah! why would not the man stop? Isabel did not want the 
past Saviour but the present now; not a dead record but a living 
experience; above all, not the minister but the great High Priest 
Himself. 

“He began to be troubled and in great heaviness, and said unto 
them, My soul is very heavy, even unto the death; tarry here 
and watch.” 

The three ministers had communicated by now; and there 
was a rustle and clatter of feet as the empty seats in front, hung 
with houselling cloths, began to be filled. The murmur of the 
three voices below as the ministers passed along with the vessels 
was drowned by the tale of the Passion that rang out overhead. 

“Couldest thou not watch one hour? Watch and pray, that ye 
enter not into temptation. The spirit indeed is ready, but the 
flesh is weak.” 

It was coming near to Isabel’s turn; the Carringtons already 
were beginning to move; and in a moment or two she rose and 
followed them out. The people were pressing up the aisles; and 
as she stood waiting her turn to pass into the white-hung seat, 
she could not help noticing the disorder that prevailed; some 
knelt devoutly, some stood, some sat to receive the sacred ele- 
ments; and all the while louder and louder, above the rustling 
and the loud whispering of the ministers and the shuffling of 
feet, the tale rose and fell on the cadences of the preacher’s voice. 
Now it was her turn; she was kneeling with palms outstretched 
and closed eyes. Ah! would he not be silent for one moment? 
Could not the reality speak for itself, and its interpreter be 
still? Surely the King of Love needed no herald when Himself 
was here. 

“And anon in the dawning, the high Priests held a Council 
with Elders and the Scribes and the whole Council, and bound 
Jesus and led Him away.”’ 

And so it was over presently, and she was back again in her 
seat, distracted and miserable; trying to pray, forcing herself 
to attend now to the reader, now to her Saviour with whom she 
believed herself in intimate union, and finding nothing but dry- 
ness and distraction everywhere. How interminable it was! She 
opened her eyes, and what she saw amazed and absorbed her for 
a few moments; some were sitting back and talking; some look- 
ing cheerfully about them as if at a public entertainment; one 
man especially overwhelmed her imagination; with a great red 
face and neck like a butcher, animal and brutal, with a heavy 


MASTER CALVIN 125 


hanging jowl and little narrow lack-lustre eyes—how bored and 
depressed he was by this long obligatory ceremony! ‘Then once 
more she closed her eyes in self-reproach at her distractions; 
here were her lips still fragrant with the Wine of God, the pres- 
sure of her Beloved’s arm still about her; and these were her 
thoughts, settling like flies, on everything... . 

When she opened them again the last footsteps were passing 
down the aisle, the dripping Cups were being replaced by the 
ministers, and covered with napkins, and the tale of Easter was 
in telling from the pulpit like the promise of a brighter day. 

“And they said one to another, Who shall roll us away the 
stone from the door of the sepulchre? And when they looked, 
they saw that the stone was rolled away (for it was a very great 
one).” 

So read the minister and closed the book; and Our Father 
began. 

In the evening, when all was over, and the prayers said and 
the expounding and catechising finished, in a kind of despair she 
slipped away alone, and walked a little by herself in the deepen- 
ing twilight beside the river; and again she made effort after 
effort to catch some consciousness of grace from this Sacrament 
Sunday, so rare and so precious; but an oppression seemed to 
dwell in the very air. The low rain-clouds hung over the city, 
leaden and chill, the path where she walked was rank with the 
smell of dead leaves, and the trees and grass dripped with life- 
less moisture. As she goaded and allured alternately her own 
fainting soul, it writhed and struggled but could not rise; there 
was no pungency of bitterness in her self-reproach, no thrill of 
joy in her aspiration; for the hand of Calvin’s God lay heavy 
on the delicate languid thing. 

She walked back at last in despair over the wet cobblestones 
of the empty market square; but as she came near the house, she 
saw that the square was not quite empty. A horse stood blowing 
and steaming before Dr. Carrington’s door, and her own maid 
and Kate were standing hatless in the doorway looking up and 
down the street. Isabel’s heart began to beat, and she walked 
quicker. In a moment Kate saw her, and began to beckon and 
call; and the maid ran to meet her. 

“Mistress Isabel, Mistress Isabel,” she cried, “‘make haste.” 

“What is it?” asked the girl, in sick foreboding. 

“There is a man come from Great Keynes,” began the maid, 
but Kate stopped her. 


126 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Come in, Mistress Isabel,” she said, “my father is waiting 
for you.” 

Dr. Carrington met her at the dining-room door; and his face 
was tender and full of emotion. 

‘What is it?” whispered the girl sharply. “Anthony?” 

“Dear child,” he said, “come in, and be brave.” 

There was a man standing in the room with cap and whip in 
hand, spurred and splashed from head to foot; Isabel recognised 
one of the grooms from the Hall. 

“What is it?’ she said again with a piteous sharpness. 

Dr. Carrington laid his hands gently on her shoulders, and 
looked into her eyes. - 

“Tt is news of your father,” he said, “from Lady Maxwell.” 

He paused, and the steady gleam of his eyes strengthened 
and quieted her, then he went on deliberately, “The Lord hath 
given and the Lord hath taken it.” 

He paused as if for an answer, but no answer came; Isabel 
was staring white-faced with parted lips into those strong blue 
eyes of his: and he finished: 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord.” 





CHAPTER XII 
A WINDING-UP 


THE curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House 
shone red from within as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three 
or four servants behind, rode round the curving drive in front 
late on the Monday evening. A face peeped from Mrs. Carroll’s 
window as the horse’s hoofs sounded on the gravel, and by the 
time that Isabel, pale, wet and worn-out with the seventy miles’ 
ride, was dismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at the door, 

with Anthony’s face at her shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking 
over the banisters. 

Isabel was not allowed to see her father’s body that night, 
but after she was in bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been 
sent for when he lay dying, came down from the Hall, and told 
her what there was to tell; while Mistress Margaret and Anthony 
entertained Dr. Carrington below. 

“Dear child,” said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on 
the bed, and holding the girl’s hand tenderly as she talked, “it 
was all over in an hour or two. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. 
Carroll sent for me suddenly, on Saturday morning; and by the 
time I reached him he could not speak. They had carried him 
upstairs from his study, where they had found him; and laid 
him down on his bed, and—yes, yes—he was in pain, but he 
was conscious, and he was praying, I think; his lips moved. And 
I knelt down by the bed and prayed aloud; he only spoke twice; 
and, my dear, it was your name the first time, and the name 
of His Saviour the second time. He looked at me, and I could 
see he was trying to speak; and then on a sudden he spoke 
‘Isabel.’ And I think he was asking me to take care of you. 
And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and he 
seemed satisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently 
Mr. Bodder began a prayer—he had come in a moment before; 
they could not find him at first—and then, and then your dear 
father moved a little and raised his hand, and the minister 
stayed; and he was looking up as if he saw something; and then 

127 


128 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


he said once, ‘Jesus’ clear and loud; and, and—that was all, 
dear child.” 

The next morning she and Anthony, with the two old ladies, 
one of whom was always with them during these days, went into 
the darkened oak room on the first floor, where he had died 
and now rested. The red curtains made a pleasant rosy light, 
and it seemed to the children impossible to believe that that 
serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, with its wide closed 
lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cut mouth, 
and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth 
oi autumn flowers and dark copper-coloured beech leaves, were 
not the face and hands of a sleeping man. 

But Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. 
She drew the curtains aside herself, and there stood his table; 
his chair was beside it, pushed back and sideways as if he had 
that moment left it; and on the table itself the books she knew 
so well. 

In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers 
lying upon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; 
even the ink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the 
agony began to lay its hand upon his heart. She stooped and 
read the last sentence. 

“This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do 
eat and drink of that labour and are burden, and come—” and 
there it stopped; and the blinding tears rushed into the girl’s 
eyes, as she stooped to kiss the curved knob of the chair-arm 
where his dear hand had last rested. | 

When all was over a day or two later the two went up to 
stay at the Hall, while the housekeeper was left in charge of the 
Dower House. Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret had been 
present at the parish church on the occasion of the funeral, for 
the first time ever since the old Marian priest had left; and 
had assisted too at the opening of the will, which was found tied 
up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaid desk; 
and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell 
wished to have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony. 

She made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony’s de- 
parture for Cambridge, two days after the funeral, when Mistress 
Margaret was out of the room, and Hubert had ridden off as 
usual with Piers, on the affairs of the estate. 

“My child,” said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive 
and listless on the window seat. “What do you think your 


A WINDING-UP 129 


cousin will direct to be done? He will scarcely wish you to leave 
home altogether, to stay with him. And yet, you understand, he 
is your guardian.” 

Isabel shook her head. 

“We know nothing of him,” she said wearily, “he has never 
been here.” 

“Tf you have a suggestion to make to him you should decide 
at once,’ the other went on, “the courier is to go on Monday, 
is he not, Anthony?” 

The boy nodded. 

“But will he not allow us,” he said, “to stay at home as usual? 
Surely B 

Lady Maxwell shook her head. 

“‘And Isabel?” she asked, “who will look after her when you 
are away?” 

“Mrs. Carroll?” he said interrogatively. 

Again she shook her head. 

“He would never consent,” she said, “it would not be right.” 

Isabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little. 

“Lady Maxwell—” she began, and then stopped, embarrassed. 

“Well, my dear?” 

“What is it, Isabel?” asked Anthony. 

“Tf it were possible—but, but I could not ask it.” 

“Tf you mean Margaret, my dear;”’ said the old lady serenely, 
drawing her needle carefully through, “it was what I thought 
myself; but I did not know if you would care for that. Is that 
what you meant?” 

“Oh, Lady Maxwell,” said the girl, her face lighting up. 

Then the old lady explained that it was not possible to ask 
them to live permanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel 
must do so until an arrangement had been made; because their 
father would scarcely have wished them to be actually inmates 
of a Catholic house; but that he plainly had encouraged close 
relations between the two houses, and indeed, Lady Maxwell 
interpreted his mention of his daughter’s name, and his look 
as he said it, in the sense that he wished those relations to con- 
tinue. She thought therefore that there was no reason why their 
new guardian’s consent should not be asked to Mistress Mar- 
garet’s coming over to the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, 
if the girl wished it. He had no particular interest in them; he 
lived a couple of hundred miles away, and the arrangement would 
probably save him a great deal of trouble and inconvenience. 





130 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“But you, Lady Maxwell,” Isabel burst out, her face kindled 
with hope, for she had dreaded the removal terribly, “you will 
be lonely here.” 

“Dear child,” said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, 
“God has been gracious to me; and my husband is coming back 
to me; you need not fear for me.”’ And she told them, with her 
old eyes full of happy tears, how she had had a private word, 
which they must not repeat, from a Catholic friend at Court, 
that all had been decided for Sir Nicholas’ release, though he 
did not know it himself yet, and that he would be at home 
again for Advent. The prison fever was beginning to cause alarm, 
and it seemed that a good fine would meet the old knight’s case 
better than any other execution of justice. 

So then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the 
gatehouse after dinner beside Anthony, with her hand on his 
horse’s neck, and as she watched him at last ride down the vil- 
lage green and disappear round behind the church, half her 
sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in the practical certainty 
that they would meet again before Christmas in their old home, 
and not in a stranger’s house in the bleak North Country. 

On the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas’ weekly letter showed 
evidence that the good news of his release had begun to penetrate 
to him; his wife longed to tell him all she had heard, but so 
many jealous eyes were on the watch for favouritism that she 
had been strictly forbidden to pass on her information. How- 
ever there was little need. 

‘“T am in hopes,” he wrote, “of keeping Christmas in a merrier 
place than prison. I do not mean heaven,’ he hastened to add, 
for fear of alarming his wife. ‘‘Good Mr. Jakes tells me 
that Sir John is ill to-day, and that he fears the gaol-fever; and 
if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, which pray God it may not 
be for Sw John’s sake, it will be the fourteenth case in the 
Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let home again; but 
with another good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, 
and mindful of the Queen’s Majesty her laws. However, dearest, 
I would gladly pay a thousand pounds, if I had them, to be home 
again.” 

But there was news at the end of the letter that caused con- 
sternation in one or two hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming 
and almost crying, to Isabel, who was taking a turn in the dusk 
at sunset. She heard his step, beyond the hedge, quick and 
impatient, and stopped short, hesitating and wondering. 


A WINDING-UP 131 


He had behaved to her with extraordinary tact and consider- 
ation, and she was very conscious of it. Since her sudden return 
ten days before from the visit which had been meant to separate 
them, he had not spoken a word to her privately, except a shy 
sentence or two of condolence, stammered out with downcast 
eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness of the words 
had brought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knew 
why she had been sent to Northampton, and had determined not 
to take advantage in any way of her sorrow. Every morning 
he had disappeared before she came down, and did not come 
back till supper, where he sat silent and apart, and yet, when 
an occasion offered itself, behaved with a quick attentive defer- 
ence that showed her where his thoughts had been. 

Now she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent 
step on the other side of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came 
quickly through the doorway and stopped short. 

“Mistress Isabel,” he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking 
at her imploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, 
“have you heard? I am to go as soon as my father comes back. 
Oh! it is a shame!” 

His voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. 
Her heart leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating. 

“Gor” she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own 
dismay how dear that quiet, chivalrous presence was to her. 

“Yes,” he went on in the same voice. “Oh! I know I should 
not speak; and—and especially now at all times; but I could 
not bear it; nor that you should think it was my will to 
go.” 

She stood still looking at him. 

“May I walk with you a little,” he said, “but—I must not 
say much—I promised my father.” 

And then as they walked he began to pour it out. 

“It is some old man in Durham,” he said, “‘and I am to see 
to his estates. My father will not want me here when he comes 
back, and, and it is to be soon. He has had the offer for me; 
and has written to tell me. There is no choice.” 

She had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high 
roofs and chimneys were before them, dark against the luminous 
sky. 

“No, no,” said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at 
the touch she thrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, 
and went forward resolutely up the steps of the terrace. 


132 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


‘““Ah! let me speak,” he said; “I have not troubled you much, 
Mistress Isabel.” 

She hesitated again a moment. 

“In my father’s room,” he went on, “and I will bring the 
letter.” 

She nodded and passed into the hall without speaking, and 
turned to Sir Nicholas’ study; while Hubert’s steps dashed up 
the stairs to his mother’s room. Isabel went in and stood on 
the hearth in the firelight that glowed and wavered round the 
room on the tapestry and the prie-dieu and the table where 
Hubert had been sitting and the tall shuttered windows, leaning 
her head against the mantelpiece, doubtful and miserable. 

“Listen,” said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later 
with the sheet open in his hand. 

‘“‘*Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take 
charge of his estates; he is too old now himself, and has none 
to help him. I have had the offer for Hubert, and have accepted 
it; he must go as soon as I have returned. I am sorry to lose 
the lad, but since James >” and Hubert broke off. “I must 
not read that,” he said. 

Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned 
a little away from him. 

“But what can I say?” went on the lad passionately, “I must 
go; and—and God knows for how long, five or six years maybe; 
and I shall come back and find you—and find you Yanda 
sob rose up and silenced him. 

“Hubert,” she said, turning and looking with a kind of waver- 
ing steadiness into his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing 
the clean-cut features and the smooth curve of his jaw with the 
firelight on it, “you ought not iy 

“T know, I know; I promised my father; but there are some 
things I cannot bear. Of course I do not want you to promise 
anything; but I thought that if perhaps you could tell me that 
you thought—that you thought there would be no one else; and 
that when I came back——” 

“Hubert,” she said again, resolutely, ‘“‘it is impossible: our 
religions He : 

“But I would do anything, I think. Besides, in five years 
so much may happen. You might become a Catholic—or—or, 
I might come to see that the Protestant Religion was nearly the 
same, or as true at least—or—or—so much might happen.—Can 
you not tell me anything before I go?” 














a 


A WINDING-UP 133 


A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she 
scarcely know what she said. 

“But, Hubert, even if I were to say ‘ 

He seized her hands and kissed them again and again. 

“Oh! God bless you, Isabel! Now I can go so happily. And 
I will not speak of it again; you can trust me; it will not be 
hard for you.” 

She tried to draw her hands away, but he still held them tightly 
in his own strong hands, and looked into her face. His eyes 
were shining. 

“Ves, yes, [ know you have promised nothing. I hold you to 
nothing. You are as free as ever to do what you will with me. 
But,’”—and he lifted her hands once more and kissed them, and 
dropped them; seized his cap and was gone. 

Isabel was left alone in a tumult of thought and emotion. He 
had taken her by storm; she had not guessed how desperately 
weak she was towards him, until he had come to her like this 
in a whirlwind of passion and stood trembling and almost crying, 
with the ruddy firelight on his face, and his eyes burning out of 
shadow. She felt fascinated still by that mingling of a boy’s 
weakness and sentiment and of a man’s fire and purpose; and 
she sank down on her knees before the hearth and looked wonder- 
ingly at her hands which he had kissed so ardently, now trans- 
parent and flaming against the light as if with love. Then as 
she looked at the red heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her 
heart quieted, and there crept on her a glow of steady desire 
to lean on the power of this tall young lover of hers; she was 
so utterly alone without him it seemed as if there were no choice 
left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of the master-law, 
and she—how much had she yielded? She had not promised; 
but she had shown evidently her real heart in those half dozen 
words; and he had interpreted them for her; and she dared not 
in honesty repudiate his interpretation. And so she knelt there, 
clasping and unclasping her hands, in a whirl of delight and trem- 
bling; all the bounds of that sober inner life seemed for the 
moment swept away; she almost began to despise its old cold- 
ness and limitations. How shadowy after all was the love of 
God, compared with this burning tide that was bearing her along 
on its bosom! . 

She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, 
clasping those slender hands tightly across her breast. 

Suddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned 


»] 





134 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


into leaping flames; the whole dark room seemed alive with 
shadows that fled to and fro, and she knelt upright quickly and 
looked round her, terrified and ashamed—What was she doing 
here? Was it so soon then that she was setting aside the will 
of her father, who trusted and loved her so well, and who lay 
out there in the chancel vault? Ah! she had no right here in 
this room—Hubert’s room now, with his cap and whip lying 
across the papers and the estate-book, and his knife and the 
broken jesses on the seat of the chair beside her. There was his 
step overhead again. She must be gone before he came back. 

There was high excitement on the estate and in the village a 
week or two later when the rumour of Sir Nicholas’ return was 
established, and the paper had been pinned up to the gatehouse 
stating, in Lady Maxwell’s own handwriting, that he would be 
back sometime in the week before Advent Sunday. Reminiscences 
were exchanged of the glorious day when the old knight came 
of age, over forty years ago; of the sports on the green, of the 
quintain-tilting for the gentlefolks, and the archery in the meadow 
behind the church for the vulgar; of the high mass and the din- 
ner that followed it. It was rumoured that Mr. Hubert and Mr. 
Piers had already selected the ox that was to be roasted whole, 
and that materials for the bonfire were in process of collection in 
the woodyard of the home farm. 

Sir Nicholas’ letters became more and more emphatically un- 
derlined and incoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell 
less and less willing for Isabel to read them; but the girl often 
found the old lady hastily putting away the thin sheets which 
she had just taken out to read to herself once again, on which 
her dear lord had scrawled down his very heart itself, as if his 
courting of her were all to do again. 

It was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode 
in through the gatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was 
to be released that day, and would be down if possible before 
nightfall. All the men on the estate were immediately called in 
and sent home to dress themselves; and an escort of a dozen 
grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode out at once 
on the north road, with torches ready for kindling, to meet the 
party and bring them home; and all other preparations were set 
forward at once. 

Towards eight o’clock Lady Maxwell was so anxious and rest- 
less that Isabel slipped out and went down to the gatehouse to 
look out for herself if there were any signs of the approach of 


A WINDING-UP 135 


the party. She went up to one of the little octagonal towers, 
and looked out towards the green. 

It was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was 
bathed in the dancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning 
on a little mound at the upper end of the green, just below where 
Isabel stood, and a heavy curtain of smoke drifted westwards. 
As she looked down on it she saw against it the tall black posts 
of the gigantic jack and the slowly revolving carcass of the ox; 
and round about the stirring crowd of the village folk, their 
figures black on this side, luminous on that. She could even 
make out the cassock and square cap of Mr. Bodder as he moved 
among his flock. The rows of houses on either side, bright and 
clear at this end, melted away into darkness at the lower end 
of the green, where on the right the church tower rose up, blot- 
ting out the stars, itself just touched with ruddy light, and on 
the top of which, like a large star itself, burned the torch of the 
watcher who was looking out towards the north road. There 
was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced by the 
shrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire, 
but there was no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled 
out of the Hall cellars that afternoon still stood untouched 
beneath the Rectory garden-wall. Isabel contrasted in her mind 
this pleasant human tumult with the angry roaring she had heard 
from these same countryfolk a few months before, when she had 
followed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue of the woman who 
had injured her; and she wondered at these strange souls, who at- 
tended a Protestant service, but were so fierce and so genial in 
their defence and welcome of a Catholic squire. 

As she thought, there was a sudden movement of the light on 
the church tower; it tossed violently up and down, and a moment 
later the jubilant clangour of the bells broke out. There was 
a sudden stir in the figures on the green, and a burst of cheering 
rose. Isabel strained her eyes northwards, but the road took 
a turn beyond the church and she could see nothing but darkness 
and low-hung stars and one glimmering window. She turned 
instinctively to the house behind her, and there was the door 
flung wide, and she could make out the figures of the two ladies 
against the brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, in cloak 
_ and hood, for the night was frosty and cold. 

As she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting 
hoofs on the hard road, and a glow began to be visible at the lower 
dark end of the village. The cheering rose higher, and the 


136 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


bells were all clashing together in melodious discord as in the 
angle of the road a group of tossing torches appeared. Then she 
could make out the horsemen; three riding together, and the 
others as escort round them. The crowd had poured off the 
grass on to the road by now, and the horses were coming up 
between two shouting, gesticulating lines which closed after them 
as they went. Now she could make out the white hair of Sir 
Nicholas, as he bowed bare-headed right and left; and Hubert’s 
feathered cap, on one side of him, and Mr. Boyd’s black hat 
on the other. They had passed the bonfire now, and were com- 
ing up the avenue, the crowds still streaming after them, and 
the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leaned 
out over the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies 
waiting just outside the gate by the horse-block; and then she 
drew back, her eyes full of tears, for she saw Sir Nicholas’ face 
as he caught sight of his wife. 

There was a sudden silence as the horses drew up; and the 
crowds ceased shouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir 
Nicholas was on the horse-block, the two ladies immediately 
behind him, and the people pressing forward to hear his voice. 
It was a very short speech; and Isabel overhead could not catch 
more than detached phrases of it, “for the faith’—‘“my wife 
and you all’—“‘home again”—‘“‘my son Hubert here’—“you and 
your families’”—“the Catholic religion”—‘‘the Queen’s Grace”— 
““God save her Majesty.” 

Then again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over 
to see them pass up to the house and to the bright door set wide 
for them, and even as she watched them go up the steps, and 
Hubert’s figure close behind, she suddenly dropped her forehead 
on to the cold battlement, and drew a sharp breath or two, for 
she remembered again what it all meant to him and to herself. 


PART etle 


CHAPTER I 
ANTHONY IN LONDON 


Tue development of a nation is strangely paralleled by the de- 
velopment of an individual. There comes in both a period of 
adolescence, of the stirring of new powers, of an increase of 
strength, of the dawn of new ideals, of the awaking of self- 
consciousness; contours become defined and abrupt, awkward and 
hasty movements succeed to the grace of childhood; and there is 
a curious mingling of refinement and brutality, stupidity and 
tenderness; the will is subject to whims; it is easily roused and 
not so easily quieted. Yet in spite of the attendant discomforts 
the whole period is undeniably one of growth. 

The reign of Elizabeth coincided with this stage in the develop- 
ment of England. The young vigour was beginning to stir—and 
Hawkins and Drake taught the world that it was so, and that 
when England stretched herself catastrophe abroad must follow. 
She loved finery and feathers and velvet, and to see herself on 
the dramatic stage and to sing her love-songs there, as a growing 
maid dresses up and leans on her hand and looks into her own 
eyes in the mirror—and Marlowe and Greene and Shakespeare 
are witnesses to it. Yet she loved to hang over the arena too 
and watch the bear-baiting and see the blood and foam and 
listen to the snarl of the hounds, as a lad loves sport and things 
that minister death. Her policy, too, under Elizabeth as her 
genius, was awkward and ill-considered and capricious, and yet 
strong and successful in the end, as a growing lad, while he is 
clumsier, yet manages to leap higher than a year ago. 

And once more, to carry the parallel still further, during the 
middle period of the reign, while the balance of parties and 
powers remained much the same, principles and tendencies began 
to assert themselves more definitely, just as muscles and sinews 
begin to appear through the round contour of the limbs of a 
growing child. 

137 


138 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Thus, from 1571 to 1577, while there was no startling reversal 
of elements in the affairs of England, the entire situation became 
more defined. The various parties, though they scarcely changed 
in their mutual relations, yet continued to develop swiftly along 
their respective lines, growing more pronounced and less inclined 
to compromise; foreign enmities and expectations became more 
acute; plots against the Queen’s life more frequent and serious, 
and the countermining of them under Walsingham more patient 
and skilful; competition and enterprise in trade more strenuous; 
Scottish affairs more complicated; movements of revolt and re- 
pression in Ireland more violent. 

What was true of politics was also true of religious matters, 
for the two were inextricably mingled. The Puritans daily became 
more clamorous and intolerant; their “Exercises” more turbulent, 
and their demands more unreasonable and one-sided. The Papists 
became at once more numerous and more strict; and the Govern- 
ment measures more stern in consequence. The act of ’71 made 
it no less a crime than High Treason to reconcile or be reconciled 
to the Church of Rome, to give effect to a Papal Bull, to be in 
possession of any muniments of superstition, or to declare the 
Queen a heretic or schismatic. The Church of England, too, 
under the wise guidance of Parker, had begun to shape her course 
more and more resolutely along the lines of inclusiveness and 
moderation; to realise herself as representing the religious voice 
of a nation that was widely divided on matters of faith; and to 
attempt to include within her fold every individual that was not 
an absolute fanatic in the Papist or Puritan direction. 

Thus, in every department, in home and foreign politics, in 
art and literature, and in religious independence, England was 
rising and shaking herself free; the last threads that bound her 
to the Continent were snapped by the Reformation, and she 
was standing with her soul, as she thought, awake and free at 
last, conscious of her beauty and her strength, ready to step out 
at last before the world, as a dominant and imperious power. 

Anthony Norris had been arrested, like so many others, by the 
vision of this young country of his, his mother and mistress, who 
stood there, waiting to be served. He had left Cambridge in ’73, 
and for three years had led a somewhat aimless life; for his 
guardian allowed him a generous income out of his father’s for- 
tune. He had stayed with Hubert in the north, had yawned 
and stretched himsel at Great Keynes, had gone to and fro 
among friends’ houses, and had at last come to the conclusion, 


ANTHONY IN LONDON 139 


to which he was aided by a chorus of advisers, that he was 
wasting his time. 

He had begun then to look round him for some occupation, 
and in the final choice of it his early religious training had formed 
a large element. It had kept alive in him a certain sense of the 
supernatural, that his exuberance of physical life might other- 
wise have crushed; and now as he looked about to see how he 
could serve his country, he became aware that her ecclesiastical 
character had a certain attraction for him; he had had indeed 
an idea of taking Orders; but he had relinquished this by now, 
thought he still desired if he might to serve the National Church 
in some other capacity. There was much in the Church of Eng- 
land to appeal to her sons; if there was a lack of unity in her 
faith and policy, yet that was largely out of sight, and her bear- 
ing was gallant and impressive. She had great wealth, great power 
and great dignity. The ancient buildings and revenues were hers; 
the civil power was at her disposal, and the Queen was eager to 
further her influence, and to protect her bishops from the en- 
croaching power of Parliament, claiming only for the crown the 
right to be the point of union for both the secular and eccle- 
siastical sections of the nation, and to stamp by her royal approval 
or annul by her veto the acts of Parliament and Convocation 
alike. It seemed then to Anthony’s eyes that the Church of Eng- 
land had a tremendous destiny before her, as the religious voice 
of the nation that was beginning to make itself so dominant in 
the council of the world, and that there was no limit to the 
influence she might exercise by disciplining the exuberant strength 
of England, and counteracting by her soberness and self-restraint 
the passionate fanaticism of the Latin nations. So little by little 
in place of the shadowy individualism that was all that he knew 
of religion, there rose before him the vision of a living church, 
who came forth terrible as an army with banners, surrounded by 
all the loyalty that nationalism could give her, with the Queen 
herself as her guardian, and great princes and prelates as her 
supporters, while at the wheels of her splendid car walked her hot- 
blooded chivalrous sons, who served her and spread her glories by 
land and sea, not perhaps chiefly for the sake of her spiritual 
claims, but because she was bone of their bone, and was no 
less zealous than themselves for the name and character of 
England. 

When, therefore, towards the end of ’76, Anthony received 
the offer of a position in the household of the Archbishop of Can- 


140 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


terbury, through the recommendation of the father of one of 
his Cambridge friends, he accepted it with real gratitude and 
enthusiasm. 

The post to which he was appointed was that of Gentleman 
of the Horse. His actual duties were not very arduous owing to 
the special circumstances of Archbishop Grindal; and he had 
a good deal of time to himself. Briefly, they were as follows— 
He had to superintend the Yeoman of the Horse, and see that 
he kept full accounts of all the horses in stable or at pasture, 
and of all the carriages and harness and the like. Every morn- 
ing he had to present himself to the Archbishop and receive 
stable orders for the day, and to receive from the yeoman ac- 
counts of the stables. Every month he examined the books 
of the yeoman before passing them on to the steward. His per- 
mission too was necessary before any guest’s or stranger’s horse 
might be cared for in the Lambeth stables. 

He was responsible also for all the men and boys connected 
with the stable; to engage them, watch their morals and even 
the performance of their religious duties, and if necessary report 
them for dismissal to the steward of the household. In Arch- 
bishop Parker’s time this had been a busy post, as the state 
observed at Lambeth and Croydon was very considerable; but 
Grindal was of a more retiring nature, disliking as was said, 
“Jordliness”; and although still the household was an immense 
affair, in its elaborateness and splendour beyond almost any 
but royal households of the present day, still Anthony’s duties 
were far from heavy. The Archbishop indeed at first dispensed 
with this office altogether, and concentrated all the supervision 
of the stable on the yeoman, and Anthony was the first and only 
Gentleman of the Horse that Archbishop Grindal employed. 
The disgrace and punishment under which the Archbishop fell 
so early in his archiepiscopate made this particular post easier 
than it would even otherwise have been; as fewer equipages were 
required when the Archbishop was confined to his house, and the 
establishment was yet further reduced. 

Ordinarily then his duties were over by eleven o’clock, except 
when special arrangements were to be made. He rose early, 
waited upon the Archbishop by eight o’clock, and received his 
orders for the day; then interviewed the yeoman; sometimes 
visited the stables to receive complaints, and was ready by half- 
past ten to go to the chapel for the morning prayers with the 
rest of the household. At eleven he dined at the steward’s table 


ANTHONY IN LONDON | 141 


in the great hall, with the other principal officers of the house- 
hold, the chaplain, the secretaries, and the gentlemen ushers, with 
guests of lesser degree. This great hall with its two entrances 
at the lower end near the gateway, its magnificent hammer-beam 
roof, its dais, its stained glass, was a worthy place of entertain- 
ment, and had been the scene of many great feasts and royal 
visits in the times of previous archbishops in favour with the 
sovereign, and of a splendid banquet at the beginning of Grindal’s 
occupancy of the see. Now, however, things were changed. There 
were seldom many distinguished persons to dine with the dis- 
graced prelate; and he himself preferred to entertain those who 
could not repay him again, after the precept of the gospel; and 
besides the provision for the numerous less important guests 
who dined daily at Lambeth, a great tub was set at the lower 
end of the hall as it had been in Parker’s time, and every day 
after dinner under the steward’s direction was filled with food 
from the tables, which was afterwards distributed at the gate 
to poor people of the neighbourhood. 

After dinner Anthony’s time was often his own, until the 
evening prayers at six, followed by supper again spread in the 
hall. It was necessary for him always to sleep in the house, 
unless leave was obtained from the steward. This gentleman, 
Mr. John Scot, an Esquire, took a fancy to Anthony, and was 
indulgent to him in many ways; and Anthony had, as a matter 
of fact, little difficulty in coming and going as he pleased so soon 
as his morning duties were done. 

Lambeth House had been lately restored by Parker, and was 
now a very beautiful and well-kept place. Among other repairs 
and buildings he had re-roofed the great hall that stood just 
within Morton’s gateway; he had built a long pier into the 
Thames where the barge could be entered easily even at low 
tide; he had rebuilt the famous summerhouse of Cranmer’s in 
the garden, besides doing many sanitary alterations and repairs; 
and the house was well kept up in Grindal’s time. 

Anthony soon added a great affection and tenderness to the 
awe that he felt for the Archbishop, who was almost from the 
first a pathetic and touching figure. When Anthony first entered 
on his duties in November ’76, he found the Archbishop in his 
last days of freedom and good favour with the Queen. Elizabeth, 
he soon learnt from the gossip of the household, was as determined 
to put down the Puritan “prophesyings” as the popish services; 
for both alike tended to injure the peace she was resolved to 


142 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


maintain. Rumours were flying to and fro; the Archbishop was 
continually going across the water to confer with his friends and 
the Lords of the Council, and messengers came and went all day; 
and it was soon evident that the Archbishop did not mean to 
yield. It was said that his Grace had sent a letter to her Majesty 
bidding her not to meddle with what did not concern her, telling 
her that she, too, would one day have to render account before 
Christ’s tribunal, and warning her of God’s anger if she persisted. 

Her Majesty had sworn like a trooper, a royal page said one 
day as he lounged over the fire in the guard-room, and had de- 
clared that if she was like Ozeas and Ahab and the rest, as 
Grindal had said she was, she would take care that he, at least, 
should be like Micaiah, the son of Imlah, before she had done 
with him. Then it began to leak out that Elizabeth was sending 
her commands to the bishops direct instead of through their Met- 
ropolitan; and, as the days went by, it became more and more 
evident that disgrace was beginning to shadow Lambeth. The 
barges that drew up at the watergate were fewer as summer 
went on, and the long tables in hall were more and more deserted; 
even the Archbishop himself seemed silent and cast down. 
Anthony used to watch him from his window going up and down 
the little walled garden that looked upon the river, with his 
hands clasped behind him and his black habit gathered up in 
them, and his chin on his breast. He would be longer than ever 
too in chapel after the morning prayer, and the company would 
wait and wonder in the anteroom till his Grace came in and gave 
the signal for dinner. And at last the blow fell. 

On one day in June, Anthony, who had been on a visit to 
Isabel at Great Keynes, returned to Lambeth in time for morning 
prayer and dinner just before the gates were shut by the porter, 
having ridden up early with a couple of grooms. There seemed 
to him to be an air of constraint abroad as the guests and mem- 
bers of the household gathered for dinner. There were no guests 
of high dignity that day, and the Archbishop sat at his own 
table silent and apart. Anthony, from his place at the steward’s 
table, noticed that he ate very sparingly, and that he appeared 
even more preoccupied and distressed than usual.. His short- 
sighted eyes, kind and brown, surounded by wrinkles from his 
habit of peering closely at everything, seemed full of sadness 
and perplexity, and his hand fumbled with his bread continually. 
Anthony did not like to ask anything of his neighbours, as there 
were one or two strangers dining at the steward’s table that day; 


ANTHONY IN LONDON 143 


and the moment dinner was over, and grace had been said and 
the Archbishop retired with his little procession preceded by a 
white wand, an usher came running back to tell Master Norris 
that his Grace desired to see him at once in the inner cloister. 

Anthony hastened round through the court between the hall and 
the river, and found the Archbishop walking up and down in his 
black habit with the round flapped cap, that, as a Puritan, he 
preferred to the square head-dress of the more ecclesiastically- 
minded clergy, still looking troubled and cast down, continually 
stroking his dark forked beard, and talking to one of his secre- 
taries. Anthony stood at a little distance at the open side of 
the court near the river, cap in hand, waiting till the Archbishop 
should beckon him. The two went up and down in the shade 
in the open court outside the cloisters, where the pump stood, 
and where the pulpit had been erected for the Queen’s famous 
visit to his predecessor; when she had sat in a gallery over the 
cloister and heard the chaplain’s sermon. On the north rose 
up the roof of the chapel. The little cloisters themselves were 
poor buildings—little more than passages with a continuous row 
of square windows running along them the height of a man’s 
head. 

After a few minutes the secretary left the Archbishop with 
an obeisance, and hastened into the house through the cloister, 
and presently the Archbishop, after a turn or two more with the 
same grave air, peered towards Anthony and then called him. 

Anthony immediately came towards him and received orders 
that half a dozen horses with grooms should be ready as soon 
as possible, who were to receive orders from Mr. Richard Framp- 
ton, the secretary; and that three or four horses more were to 
be kept saddled till seven o’clock that evening in case further 
messages were wanted. 

“And I desire you, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “‘to let 
the men under your charge know that their master is in trouble 
with the Queen’s Grace; and that they can serve him best by 
being prompt and obedient.” 

Anthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to with- 
draw, but the Archbishop went on: 

“TY will tell you,’”’ he said, “for your private ear only at pres- 
ent, that I have received an order this day from my Lords of 
the Council, bidding me to keep to my house for six months; 
and telling me that I am sequestered by the Queen’s desire. I 
know not how this will end, but the cause is that I will not do 


144 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


her Grace’s will in the matter of the Exercises, as I wrote to 
tell her so; and I am determined, by God’s grace, not to yield 
in this thing; but to govern the charge committed to me as He 
gives me light. That is all, Mr. Norris.” 

The whole household was cast into real sorrow by the blow 
that had fallen at last on the master; he was “loving and grate- 
ful to servants”; and was free and liberal in domestic matters, 
and it needed only a hint that he was in trouble, for his officers 
and servants to do their utmost for him. 

Anthony’s sympathy was further aroused by the knowledge 
that the Papists, too, hated the old man, and longed to injure 
him. There had been a great increase of Catholics this year; 
the Archbishop of York had reported that “a more stiff-necked, 
wilful, or obstinate people did he never hear of”; and from Here- 
ford had come a lament that conformity itself was a mockery, 
as even the Papists that attended church were a distraction when 
they got there, and John Hareley was instanced as “reading so 
loud upon his Latin popish primer (that he understands not) 
that he troubles both minister and people.’”’ In November mat- 
ters were so serious that the Archbishop felt himself obliged to 
take steps to chastise the recusants; and in December came the 
news of the execution of Cuthbert Maine at Launceston in 
Cornwall. c 

How much the Catholics resented this against the Archbishop 
was brought to Anthony’s notice a day or two later. He was 
riding back from morning prayer after an errand in Battersea, 
one frosty day, and had just come in sight of Morton’s Gateway, 
when he observed a man standing by it, who turned and ran, on 
hearing the horse’s footsteps, past Lambeth Church and disap- 
peared in the direction of the meadows behind Essex House. 
Anthony checked his horse, doubtful whether to follow or not, 
but decided to see what it was that the man had left pinned 
to the door. He rode up and detached it, and found it was a 
violent and scurrilous attack upon the Archbishop for his sup- 
posed share in the death of the two Papists. It denounced him 
as a “bloody pseudo-minister,’ compared him to Pilate, and 
bade him “look to his congregation of lewd and profane persons 
that he named the Church of England,” for that God would 
avenge the blood of his saints speedily upon their murderers. 

Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. 
Scot, put it indignantly into the fire. The steward raised his 
eyebrows. 


ANTHONY IN LONDON 145 


“Why so, Master Norris?” he asked. 

“Why,” said Anthony sharply, ““you would not have me frame 
it, and show to my lord.” 

“Tf am not sure,” said the other, “if you desire to injure the 
Papists. Such foul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is 
best to keep evidence against a traitor, not destroy it. Besides, 
we might have caught the knave, and now we cannot,” he added, 
looking at the black shrivelling sheet half regretfully. 

“It is a mystery to me,” said Anthony, “how there can be 
Papists.” 

“Why, they hate England,” said the steward, briefly, as the 
bell rang for morning prayer. As Anthony followed him along 
the gallery, he thought half guiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, 
and wondered whether that was true of them. But he had no 
doubt that it was true of Catholics as a class; they had ceased 
to be English; the cause of the Pope and the Queen were irrecon- 
cilable; and so the whole incident added more fuel to the hot 
flame of patriotism and loyalty that burnt so bright in the lad’s 
soul. 

But it was fanned yet higher by a glimpse he had of Court- 
life; and he owed it to Mary Corbet whom he had only seen 
momentarily in public once or twice, and never to speak to since 
her visit to Great Keynes over six years ago. He had blushed pri- 
vately and bitten his lip a good many times in the interval, when 
he thought of his astonishing infatuation, and yet the glamour 
had never wholly faded; and his heart quickened perceptibly 
when he opened a note one day, brought by a royal groom, that 
asked him to come that very afternoon if he could, to Whitehall 
Palace, where Mistress Corbet would be delighted to see him 
and renew their acquaintance. 

As he came, punctual to the moment, into the gallery over- 
looking the tilt-yard, the afternoon sun was pouring in through 
the oriel window, and the yard beyond seemed ail a haze of 
golden light and dust. He heard an exclamation, as he paused, 
dazzled, and the servant closed the door behind him; and there 
came forward to him in the flood of glory, the same resplendent 
figure, all muslin and jewels, that he remembered so well, with 
the radiant face, looking scarcely older, with the same dancing 
eyes and scarlet lips. All the old charm seemed to envelop him 
in a moment as he saluted her with all the courtesy of which 
he was capable. 

“Ah!” she cried, “how happy I am to see you again—those 


146 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


dear days at Great Keynes!” And she took both his hands with 
such ardour that poor Anthony was almost forced to think that 
he had never been out of her thoughts since. 

“How can I serve you, Miss Corbet?” he asked. 

“Serve me? Why, by talking to me, and telling me of the 
country. What does the lad mean? Come and sit here,” she 
said, and she drew him to the window seat. 

Anthony looked out into the shining haze of the tilt-yard. 
Some one with a long pole was struggling violently on the back 
of a horse, jerking the reins and cursing audibly. 

“Took at that fool,” said Mary, “he thinks his horse as great 
a dolt as himself. Chris, Chris,’”’ she screamed through her 
hands—“‘you sodden ass; be quieter with the poor beast—soothe 
him, soothe him. He doesn’t know what you want of him with 
your foul temper and your pole going like a windmill about his 
ears.” 

The cursing and jerking ceased, and a red furious face with 
thick black beard and hair looked up. But before the rider could 
speak, Mary went on again: 

“There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take 
him at it.” 

“What does he want?” asked Anthony. “I can scarcely see 
for the dust.” 

“Why, he’s practising at the quintain;—ah! ah!” she cried out 
again, as the quintain was missed and swung round with a hard 
buffet on the man’s back as he tore past. “Going to market, 
Chris? You’ve got a sturdy shepherd behind you. Baa, baa, 
black sheep.” 

‘“Who’s that?” asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if 
driven by the storm of contumely from the window, disappeared 
towards the stable. 

“Why, that’s Chris Hatton—whom the Queen calls her sheep, 
and he’s as silly as one, too, with his fool’s face and his bleat 
and his great eyes. He trots about after her Grace, too, like a 
pet lamb. Bah! I’m sick of him. That’s enough of the ass; tell 
me about Isabel.” 

Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him 
as he answered her questions. 

“Then she isn’t a Papist, yet?” she asked. 

Anthony’s face showed such consternation that she burst out 
laughing. 

‘There, there, there!” she cried. ‘‘No harm’s done. Then that 


ANTHONY IN LONDON 147 


tall lad, who was away last time I was there—well, I suppose 
he’s not turned Protestant?” 

Anthony’s face was still more bewildered. 

“Why, my dear lad,” she said, ‘““where are your eyes?” 

“Mistress Corbet,” he burst out at last, “I do not know what 
you mean. Hubert has been in Durham for years. There is no 
talk”—and he stopped. 

Mary’s face became sedate again. 

“Well, well,’ she said, “I always was a tattler. It seems I 
am wrong again. Forgive me, Master Anthony.” 

Anthony was indeed astonished at her fantastic idea. Of 
course he knew that Hubert had once been fond of Isabel, but 
that was years ago, when they had been all children together. 
Why, he reflected, he too had been foolish once—and he blushed 
a little. 

Then they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and 
Mr. Stewart’s arrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to 
excuse her interest in such matters, but Papistry had always been 
her religion, and what could a poor girl do but believe what she 
was taught? Then they went on to speak of more recent affairs, 
and Mary made him describe to her his life at Lambeth, and 
everything he did from the moment he got up to the moment 
he went to bed again; and whether the Archbishop was a kind 
master, and how long they spent at prayers, and how many 
courses they had at dinner; and Anthony grew more and more 
animated and confidential—she was so friendly and interested 
and pretty, as she leaned towards him and questioned and listened, 
and the faint scent of violet from her dress awakened his old 
memories of her. 

And then at last she approached the subject on which she had 
chiefly wished to see him—which was that he should speak to 
the steward at Lambeth on behalf of a young man who was to be 
dismissed, it seemed, from the Archbishop’s service, because his 
sister had lately turned Papist and fled to a convent abroad. 
It was a small matter; and Anthony readily promised to do his 
best, and, if necessary, to approach the Archbishop himself: and 
Mistress Corbet was profusely grateful. 

They had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet 
blew suddenly somewhere away behind the building they were in. 
Mary held up a white finger and put her head on one side. 

“That will be the Ambassador,” she said. 

Anthony looked at her interrogatively. 


148 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Why, you country lad!” she said, ‘“‘come and see.” 

She jumped up, and he followed her down the gallery, and along 
through interminable corridors and antechambers, and up and 
down the stairs of this enormous palace; and Anthony grew 
bewildered and astonished as he went at the doors on all sides, 
and the roofs that ranged themselves every way as he looked 
out. And at last Mary stopped at a window, and pointed out. 

The courtyard beneath was alive with colour and movement. 
In front of the entrance opposite waited the great gilded state 
carriage, and another was just driving away. On one side a 
dozen ladies on grey horses were drawn up, to follow behind the 
Queen when she should come out; and a double row of liveried 
servants were standing bareheaded round the empty carriage. 
The rest of the court was filled with Spanish and English nobles, 
mounted, with their servants on foot; all alike in splendid cos- 
tumes—the Spaniards with rich chains about their necks, and 
tall broad-brimmed hats decked with stones and pearls, and the 
Englishmen in feathered buckled caps and short cloaks thrown 
back. Two or three trumpeters stood on the steps of the porch. 
Anthony did not see much state at Lambeth, and the splendour 
and gaiety of this seething courtyard exhilarated him, and he 
stared down at it all, fascinated, while Mary Corbet poured out 
a caustic commentary: 

“There is the fat fool Chris again, all red with his tilting. I 
would like to baa at him again, but I dare not with all these 
foreign folk. . There is Leicester, that tall man with a bald fore- 
head in the cap with the red feather, on the white horse behind 
the carriage—he always keeps close to the Queen. He is the 
enemy of your prelate, Master Anthony, you know. . . . That is 
Oxford, just behind him on the chestnut. Yes, look well at him. 
He is the prince of the tilt-yard; none can stand against him. 
You would say he was at his nine-pins, when he rides against 
them all. . . . And he can do more than tilt. These sweet-washed 
gloves’’—and she flapped an embroidered pair before Anthony 
“these he brought to England. God bless and reward him for 
it!” she added fervently... . ‘I do not see Burghley. Eh! 
but he is old and gouty these days; and loves a cushion and a 
chair and a bit of flannel better than to kneel before her Grace. 
You know, she allows him to sit when he confers with her. But 
then, she is ever prone to show mercy to bearded persons. .. . 
Ah! there is dear Sidney; that is a sweet soul. But what does 
he do here among the stones and mortar when he has the beeches 





ANTHONY IN LONDON 149 


of Penshurst to walk beneath? He is not so wise as I thought 
him. . . . But I must say I grow weary of his nymphs and his 
airs of Olympus. And for myself, I do not see that Flora and 
Phcebus and Maia and the rest are a great gain, instead of Our 
Lady and Saint Christopher and the court of heaven. But then 
I am a Papist and not a heathen, and therefore blind and super- 
stitious. Is that not so, Master Anthony? ... And there is 
Maitland beside him, with the black velvet cap and the white 
feather, and his cross eyes and mouth. Now I wish he were at 
Penshurst, or Bath—or better still, at Jericho, for it is further 
off. I cannot bear that fellow. ... Why, Sussex is going on 
the water, too, I see. Now what brings him here? I should have 
thought his affairs gave him enough to think of... . There he 
is, with his groom behind him, on the other chestnut. I am 
astonished at him. He is all for this French marriage, you know. 
So you may figure to yourself Mendoza’s love for him! They will 
be like two cats together on the barge; spitting and snarling softly 
at one another. Her Grace loves to balance folk like that; first 
one stretches his claws, and then the other; then one arches his 
back and snarls, and the other scratches his face for him; and 
then when all is flying fur and blasphemy, off slips her Grace and 
does what she will.” 

It was an astonishing experience for Anthony. He had stepped 
out from his workaday life among the grooms and officers and 
occasional glimpses of his lonely old master, into an enchanted 
region, where great personages whose very names were luminous 
with fame, now lived and breathed and looked cheerful or sullen 
before his very eyes; and one who knew them in their daily life 
stood by him and commented and interpreted them for him. He 
listened and stared, dazed with the strangeness of it all. 

Mistress Corbet was proceeding to express her views upon 
the foreign element that formed half the pageant, when the shrill 
music broke out again in the palace, and the trumpeters on the 
steps took it up; and a stir and bustle began. Then out of the 
porch began to stream a procession, like a river of colour and 
jewels, pouring from the foot of the carved and windowed wall, 
and eddying in a tumbled pool about the great gilt carriage;— 
ushers and footmen and nobles and ladies and pages in bewilder- 
ing succession. Anthony pressed his forehead to the glass as he 
watched, with little exclamations, and Mary watched him, amused 
and interested by his enthusiasm. 

And last moved the great canopy bending and swaying under 


150 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the doorway, and beneath it, like two gorgeous butterflies, at the 
sight of whom all the standing world fell on its knees, came the 
pale Elizabeth with her auburn hair, and the brown-faced 
Mendoza, side by side; and entered the carriage with the five 
plumes atop and the caparisoned horses that stamped and tossed 
their jingling heads. The yard was already emptying fast, en 
route for Chelsea Stairs; and as soon as the two were seated, 
the shrill trumpets blew again, and the halberdiers moved off with 
the carriage in the midst, the great nobles going before, and the 
ladies behind. The later comers mounted as quickly as possible, 
as their horses were brought in from the stable entrance, and 
clattered away, and in five minutes the yard was empty, except 
for a few sentries at their posts, and a servant or two lounging 
at the doorway; and as Anthony still stared at the empty pave- 
ment and the carpeted steps, far away from the direction of the 
Abbey came the clear call of the horns to tell the loyal folk that 
the Queen was coming. 

It was a great inspiration for Anthony. He had seen world- 
powers incarnate below him in the glittering rustling figure of 
the Queen, and the dark-eyed courtly Ambassador in his orders 
and jewels at her side. There they had sat together in one 
carriage; the huge fiery realm of the south, whose very name 
was redolent with passion and adventure and boundless wealth; 
and the little self-contained northern kingdom, now beginning to 
stretch its hands, and quiver all along its tingling sinews and 
veins with fresh adolescent life. And Anthony knew that he 
was one of the cells of this young organism; and that in him as 
well as in Elizabeth and this sparkling creature at his side ran 
the fresh red blood of England. They were all one in the pos- 
session of a common life; and his heart burned as he thought 
of it. 

After he had parted from Mary he rode back to Westminster, 
and crossed the river by the horse-ferry that plied there. And 
even as he landed and got his beast, with a deal of stamping and 
blowing, off the echoing boards on to the clean gravel again, 
there came down the reaches of the river the mellow sound of 
music across a mile of water, mingled with the deep rattle of oars, 
and sparkles of steel and colour glittered from the far-away royal 
barges in the autumn sunshine; and the lad thought with wonder 
how the two great powers so savagely at war upon the salt sea, 
were at peace here, sitting side by side on silken cushions and 
listening to the same trumpets of peace upon the flowing river. 


CHAPTER II 
SOME NEW LESSONS 


THE six years that followed Sir Nicholas’ return and Hubert’s 
departure for the North had passed uneventfully at Great Keynes. 
The old knight had been profoundly shocked that any Catholic, 
especially an agent so valuable as Mr. Stewart, should have found 
his house a death-trap; and although he continued receiving his 
friends and succouring them, he did so with more real caution 
and less ostentation of it. His religious zeal and discretion were 
further increased by the secret return to the “Old Religion” of 
several of his villagers during the period; and a very fair congre- 
gation attended Mass so often as it was said in the cloister wing 
of the Hall. The new Rector, like his predecessor, was content 
to let the squire alone; and unlike him had no wife to make 
trouble. 

Then, suddenly, in the summer of ’77, catastrophes began, 
headed by the unexpected return of Hubert, impatient of waiting, 
and with new plans in his mind. 

Isabel had been out with Mistress Margaret walking in the 
dusk one August evening after supper, on the raised terrace be- 
neath the yews. They had been listening to the loud snoring 
of the young owls in the ivy on the chimney-stack opposite, and 
had watched the fierce bird slide silently out of the gloom, white 
against the blackness, and disappear down among the meadows. 
Once Isabel had seen him pause, too, on one of his return jour- 
neys, suspicious of the dim figures beneath, silhouetted on a 
branch against the luminous green western sky, with the outline 
of a mouse with its hanging tail plain in his crooked claws, 
before he glided to his nest again. As Isabel waited she heard 
the bang of the garden-door, but gave it no thought, and a 
moment after Mistress Margaret asked her to fetch a couple of 
wraps from the house for them both, as the air had a touch of 
chill in it. She came down the lichened steps, crossed the lawn, 
and passed into the unlighted hall. As she entered, the door 

151 


152 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


opposite opened, and for a moment she saw the silhouette of a 
man’s figure against the bright passage beyond. Her heart sud- 
denly leapt, and stood still. 

“Anthony!” she whispered, in a hush of suspense. 

There was a vibration and a step beside her. 

“Tsabel!”? said Hubert’s voice. And then his arms closed round 
her for the first time in her life. She struggled and panted a 
moment as she felt his breath on her face; and he re- 
leased her. She recoiled to the door, and stood there silent and 
panting. 

“Oh! Isabel!” he whispered; and again, “‘Isabel!”’ 

She put out her hand and grasped the door-post behind her. 

“Oh! Hubert! Why have you come?” 

He came a step nearer and she could see the faint whiteness 
of his face in the western glimmer. 

“T cannot wait,” he said, ‘I have been nearly beside myself. 
I have left the north—and I cannot wait so long.” 

“Well?” she said; and he heard the note of entreaty and 
anxiety in her voice. : 

“T have my plans,” he answered; “I will tell you to-morrow. 
Where is my aunt?” 

Isabel heard a step on the gravel outside. 

“She is coming,” she said sharply. Hubert melted into the 
dark, and she saw the opposite door open and let him out. 

The next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and 
a conflict followed. 

“T cannot go on, sir,” he said, “I cannot wait for ever. I am 
treated like a servant, too; and you know how miserably I am 
paid. I have obeyed you for six years, sir; and now I have 
thrown up the post and told my lord to his face that I can bear 
with him no longer.” 

Sir Nicholas’ face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the 
boy, grew flushed with passion. 

“Tt is your accursed temper, sir,” he said violently. ‘I know 
you of old. Wait? For what? For the Protestant girl? I told 
you to put that from your mind, sir.” 

Hubert did not propose as yet to let his father into all his plans. 

“T have not spoken her name, sir, I think. I say I cannot wait 
for my fortune; I may be impatient, sir—I do not deny it.” 

“Then how do you propose to better it?” sneered his father. 

“In November,” said Hubert steadily, looking his father in 
the eyes, “TI sail with Mr. Drake.” 





SOME NEW LESSONS 153 


Sir Nicholas’ face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table 
twice with his clenched fist. 

“Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now.” 

Hubert’s face grew white with anger; but he had his temper 
under control. 

“Then I wish you good-day, sir,” and he left the room. 

When the boy had left the house again for London, as he did 
the same afternoon, Lady Maxwell tried to soothe the old man. 
It was impossible, even for her, to approach him before. 

“Sweetheart,” she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at 
his plate when supper was over and the men had left the room, 
“sweetheart, we must have Hubert down here again. He must 
not sail with Mr. Drake.” 

The old man’s face flared up again in anger. 

“He may follow his own devices,” he cried. “I care not what 
he does. He has given up the post that I asked for him; and 
he comes striding and ruffling home with his hat cocked and— 
and ”: his voice became inarticulate. 

“He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy’s hot blood—you 
would sooner have him like that than a milk-sop. Besides—he 
is our boy.” 

The old man growled. His wife went on: 

“And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, 
as you know, and carry on the old name.” 

“He has disgraced it,” burst out the angry old man, “and he 
is going now with that damned Protestant to harry Catholics. 
By the grace of God I love my country, and would serve her 
Grace with my heart’s blood—but that my boy should go with 
Drake !” and again his voice failed. 

It was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband’s 
leave to write a conciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go 
with Drake, if he had made any positive engagement (because, 
as she represented to Sir Nicholas, there was nothing actually 
wrong or disloyal to the Faith in it)—but entreating him with 
much pathos not to leave his old parents so bitterly. 








“Oh, my dear son,” the end of the letter ran, “your father 
is old; and God, in whose hand are our days, alone knows how 
long he will live; and I, too, my son, am old. So come back to 
us and be our dear child again. You must not think too hardly 
of your father’s words to you; he is quick and hot, as you are, 
too—but indeed we love you dearly. Your room here is ready 


154 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


for you; and Piers wants a firm hand now over him, as your 
father is so old. So come back, my darling, and make our old 
hearts glad again.” 

But the weeks passed by, and no answer came, and the old 
people’s hearts grew sick with suspense; and then, at last, in 
September the courier brought a letter, written from Plymouth, 
which told the mother that it was too late; that he had in fact 
engaged himself to Mr. Drake in August before he had come to 
Great Keynes at all; and that in honour he must keep his engage- 
ment. He asked pardon of his father for his hastiness; but it 
seemed a cold and half-hearted sorrow; and the letter ended by 
announcing that the little fleet would sail in November; and that 
at present they were busy fitting the ships and engaging the men; 
and that there would be no opportunity for him to return to 
wish them good-bye before he sailed. It was plain that the 
lad was angry still. 

Sir Nicholas did not say much; but a silence fell on the house. 
Lady Maxwell sent for Isabel, and they had a long interview. 
The old lady was astonished at the girl’s quietness and resignation. 

Yes, she said, she loved Hubert with all her heart. She had 
loved him for a long while. No, she was not angry, only startled. 
What would she do about the difference in religion? Could she 
marry him while one was a Catholic and the other a Protestant? 
No, they would never be happy like that; and she did not know 
what she would do. She supposed she would wait and see. Yes, 
she would wait and see; that was all that could be done-——And 
then had come a silent burst of tears, and the girl had sunk down 
on her knees and hidden her face in the old lady’s lap, and the 
wrinkled jewelled old hand passed quietly over the girl’s black 
hair; but no more had been said, and Isabel presently got up 
and went home to the Dower House. 

The autumn went by, and November came, and there was no 
further word from Hubert. Then towards the end of November 
a report reached them from Anthony at Lambeth that the fleet 
had sailed; but had put back into Falmouth after a terrible storm 
in the Channel. And hope just raised its head. 

Then one evening after supper Sir Nicholas complained of 
fever and restlessness, and went early to bed. In the night he 
was delirious. Mistress Margaret hastened up at midnight from 
the Dower House, and a groom galloped off to Lindfield before 
morning to fetch the doctor, and another to fetch Mr. Barnes, 
the priest, from Cuckfield. Sir Nicholas was bled to reduce the 


SOME NEW LESSONS 155 


fever of the pneumonia that had attacked him. All day long he 
was sinking. About eleven o’clock that night he fell asleep, appar- 
ently, and Lady Maxwell, who had watched incessantly, was 
persuaded to lie down; but at three o’clock in the morning, on 
the first of December, Mistress Margaret awakened her, and 
together they knelt by the bedside of the old man. The priest, 
who had anointed him on the previous evening, knelt behind, re- 
peating the prayers for the dying. 

Sir Nicholas lay on his back, supported by pillows, under the 
gloom of the black old four-posted bed. A wood-fire glowed on 
the hearth, and the air was fragrant with the scent of the burning 
cedar-logs. A crucifix was in the old man’s hands; but his eyes 
were bright with fever, and his fingers every now and then 
relaxed, and then tightened their hold again on the cool silver of 
the figure of the crucified Saviour. His lips were moving tremu- 
lously, and his ruddy old face was pale now. 

The priest’s voice went on steadily; the struggle was beginning. 

“Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo-—Go forth, 
Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Father 
Almighty, who created thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son 
of the living God, Who suffered for thee; in the name of the 
Holy Ghost, who was shed forth upon thee; in the name of 
Angels and Archangels; in the name of Thrones and Dominions; 
in the name of Principalities and Powers fi 

Suddenly the old man, whose head had been slowly turning 
from side to side, ceased his movement, and his open mouth 
closed; he was looking steadily at his wife, and a look of recog- 
nition came back to his eyes. 

“Sweetheart,” he said; and smiled, and died. 





Isabel did not see much of Mistress Margaret for the next few 
days; she was constantly with her sister, and when she came to 
the Dower House now and then, said little to the girl. There 
were curious rumours in the village; strangers came and went 
continually, and there was a vast congregation at the funeral, 
when the body of the old knight was laid to rest in the Maxwell 
chapel. The following day the air of mystery deepened; and 
young Mrs. Melton whispered to Isabel, with many glances and 
becks, that she and her man had seen lights through the chapel 
windows at three o’clock that morning. Isabel went into the 
chapel presently to visit the grave, and there was a new smear 
of black on the east wall as if a taper had been set too near. 


156 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


The courier who had been despatched to announce to Hubert 
that his father had died and left him master of the Hall and 
estate, with certain conditions, returned at the end of the month 
with the news that the fleet had sailed again on the thirteenth, 
and that Hubert was gone with it; so Lady Maxwell, now more 
silent and retired than ever, for the present retained her old 
position and Mr. Piers took charge of the estate. 

Although Isabel outwardly was very little changed in the last 
six years, great movements had been taking place in her soul, and 
if Hubert had only known the state of the case, possibly he would 
not have gone so hastily. with Mr. Drake. 

The close companionship of such an one as Mistress Margaret 
was doing its almost inevitable work; and the girl had been 
learning that behind the brilliant and even crude surface of the 
Catholic practice, there lay still and beautiful depths of devotion 
which she had scarcely dreamed of. The old nun’s life was a 
revelation to Isabel; she heard from her bed in the black winter 
mornings her footsteps in the next room, and soon learnt that 
Mistress Margaret spent at least two hours in prayer before she 
appeared at all. Two or three times in the day she knew that 
she retired again for the same purpose, and again an hour after 
she was in bed, there were the same gentle movements next door. 
She began to discover, too, that for the Catholic, as well as for 
the Puritan, the Person of the Saviour was the very heart of 
religion; that her own devotion to Christ was a very languid flame 
by the side of the ardent inarticulate passion of this soul who 
believed herself His wedded spouse; and that the worship of 
the saints and the Blessed Mother instead of distracting the love 
of the Christian soul rather seemed to augment it. The King 
of Love stood, as she fancied sometimes, to Catholic eyes, in a 
glow of ineffable splendour; and the faces of His adoring Court 
reflected the ruddy glory on all sides; thus refracting the light 
of their central Sun, instead of, as she had thought, ob- 
scuring it. 

Other difficulties, too, began to seem oddly unreal and in- 
tangible, when she had looked at them in the light of Mistress 
Margaret’s clear old eyes and candid face. It was a real event 
in her inner life when she first began to understand what the 
rosary meant to Catholics. Mistress Corbet had told her what 
was the actual use of the beads; and how the mysteries of Christ’s 
life and death were to be pondered over as the various prayers 
were said; but it had hitherto seemed to Isabel as if this method 


SOME NEW LESSONS 157 


were an elaborate and superstitious substitute for reading the 
inspired record of the New Testament. 

She had been sitting out in the little walled garden in front of 
the Dower House one morning on an early summer day after 
her father’s death, and Mistress Margaret had come out in her 
black dress and stood for a moment looking at her irresolutely, 
framed in the dark doorway. Then she had come slowly across 
the grass, and Isabel had seen for the first time in her fingers a 
string of ivory beads. Mistress Margaret sat down on a garden 
chair a little way from her, and let her hands sink into her lap, 
still holding the beads. Isabel said nothing, but went on reading. 
Presently she looked up again, and the old lady’s eyes were half- 
closed, and her lips just moving; and the beads passing slowly 
through her fingers. She looked almost like a child dreaming, in 
spite of her wrinkles and her snowy hair; the pale light of a 
serene soul lay on her face. This did not look like the mechanical 
performance that Isabel had always associated with the idea of 
beads. So the minutes passed away; every time that Isabel looked 
up there was the little white face with the long lashes lying on 
the cheek, and the crown of snowy hair and lace, and the luminous 
look of a soul in conscious communion with the unseen. 

When the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about 
her fingers and opened her eyes. Isabel had an impulse to speak. 
“Mistress Margaret,” she said, “may I ask you something?”’ 

“Of course, my darling,” the old lady said. 

“T have never seen you use those before—I cannot understand 
them.” 

“What is it,’ asked the old lady, “that you don’t understand?” 

“How can prayers said over and over again like that be any 
good?” 

Mistress Margaret was silent for a moment. 

“T saw young Mrs. Martin last week,” she said, “‘with her little 
girl in her lap. Amy had her arms round her mother’s neck, and 
was being rocked to and fro; and every time she rocked she said 
‘Oh, mother.’ ” 

“But then,” said Isabel, after a moment’s silence, “she was 
only a child.” 

““ “Except ye become like little children >” quoted Mistress 
Margaret softly—‘‘you see, my Isabel, we are nothing more than 
children with God and His Blessed Mother. To say ‘Hail Mary, 
Hail Mary,’ is the best way of telling her how much we love 
her. And then this string of beads is like Our Lady’s girdle, and 





158 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


her children love to finger it, and whisper to her. And then we 
say our paternosters, too; and all the while we are talking she 
is shewing us pictures of her dear Child, and we look at all the 
great things He did for us, one by one; and then we turn the page 
and begin again.” 

“T see,” said Isabel; and after a moment or two’s silence Mis- 
tress Margaret got up and went into the house. 

The girl sat still with her hands clasped round her knee. How 
strange and different this religion was to the fiery gospel she had 
heard last year at Northampton from the harsh stern preacher, 
at whose voice a veil seemed to rend and show a red-hot heaven 
behind! How tender and simple this was—like a blue summer’s 
sky with drifting clouds! If only it was true! If only there were 
a great Mother whose girdle was of beads strung together, which 
dangled into every Christian’s hands; whose face bent down 
over every Christian’s bed; and whose mighty and tender arms 
that had held her Son and God were still stretched out beneath 
her other children. And Isabel, whose soul yearned for a mother, 
sighed as she reminded herself that there was but “one Mediator 
between God and man—the man, Christ Jesus.” 

And so the time went by, like an outgoing tide, silent and 
steady. The old nun did not talk much to the girl about dog- 
matic religion, for she was in a difficult position. She was timid 
certainly of betraying her faith by silence, but she was also timid 
of betraying her trust by speech. Sometimes she felt she had 
gone too far, sometimes not far enough; but on the whole her 
practice was never to suggest questions, but only to answer them 
when Isabel asked; and to occupy herself with affirmative rather 
than with destructive criticism. More than this she hesitated to 
do out of honour for the dead; less than this she dared not do 
out of love for God and Isabel. But there were three or four 
conversations that she felt were worth waiting for; and the look 
on Isabel’s face afterwards, and the sudden questions she would 
ask sometimes after a fit of silence, made her friend’s heart 
quicken towards her, and her prayers more fervent. 

The two were sitting together one December day in Isabel’s 
upstairs room and the girl, who had just come in from a solitary 
walk, was half kneeling on the window-seat and drumming her 
fingers softly on the panes as she looked out at the red west- 
ern sky. 

“T used to think,” she said, “that Catholics had no spiritual 
life; but now it seems to me that in comparison we Puritans have 


SOME NEW LESSONS 159 


none. You know so much about the soul, as to what is from 
God and what from the Evil One: and we have to grope for our- 
selves. And yet our Saviour said that His sheep should know His 
voice. I do not understand it.’’ And she turned towards Mistress 
Margaret who had laid down her work and was listening. 

“Dear child,” she said, “if you mean our priests and spiritual 
writers, it is because they study it. We believe in the science of 
the soul; and we consult our spiritual guides for our soul’s health, 
as the leech for our body’s health.” 

“But why must you ask the priest, if the Lord speaks to all 
alike?” 

“He speaks through the priest, my dear, as He does through 
the physician.” 

“But why should the priest know better than the people?” 
pursued Isabel, intent on her point. 

“Because he tells us what the Church says,” said the other 
smiling, “it is his business. He need not be any better or cleverer 
in other respects. The baker may be a thief or a foolish fellow; 
but his bread is good.” 

“But how do you know,” went on Isabel, who thought Mistress 
Margaret a little slow to see her point—‘“how do you know that 
the Church is right?” 

The old nun considered a moment, and then lifted her em- 
broidery again. 

“Why do you think,” she asked, beginning to sew, “that each 
single soul that asks God’s guidance is right?” 

“Because the Holy Ghost is promised to such,” said Isabel 
wondering. 

“Then is it not likely,” went on the other still stitching, ‘‘that 
the millions of souls who form Holy Church are right, when they 
all agree together?”’? Isabel moved a little impatiently. 

“You see,” went on Mistress Margaret, “that is what we Catho- 
lics believe our Saviour meant when He said that the gates of 
hell should not prevail against His Church.” 

' But Isabel was not content. She broke in: 

“But why are not the Scriptures sufficient? They are God’s 
Word.” 

The other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into 
the girl’s puzzled eyes. 

“Well, my child,” she said, “‘do they seem sufficient, when you 
look at Christendom now? If they are so clear, how is it that 
you have the Lutherans, and the Anabaptists, and the Family of 


160 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Love, and the Calvinists, and the Church of England, all saying 
they hold to the Scriptures alone. Nay, nay; the Scriptures are 
the grammar, and the Church is the dame that teaches out of it, 
and she knows so well much that is not in the grammar, and we 
name that tradition. But where there is no dame to teach, the 
children soon fall a-fighting about the book and the meaning 
of it.” 

Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned 
back again to the window in silence. 

At another time they had a word or two about Peter’s 
prerogatives. | 

“Surely,” said Isabel suddenly, as they walked together in the 
garden, “Christ is the one Foundation of the Church, St. Paul 
tells us so expressly.” 

“Yes, my dear,” said the nun, “but then Christ our Lord said: 
‘Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church.’ So 
he who is the only Good Shepherd, said to Peter, ‘Feed My 
sheep’; and He that is Clavis David and that openeth and none 
shutteth said to him, ‘I will give thee the keys, and whatsoever 
thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.’ That is why 
we call Peter the Vicar of Christ.” 

Isabel raised her eyebrows. 

“Surely, surely ” she began. 

“Ves, my child,” said Mistress Margaret, ‘I know it is new 
and strange to you; but it was not to your grandfather or his 
forbears: to them, as to me, it is the plain meaning of the words. 
We Catholics are a simple folk. We hold that what our Saviour 
said simply He meant simply: as we do in the sacred mystery of 
His Body and Blood. To us, you know,” she went on, smiling, 
with a hand on the girl’s arm, “it seems as if you Protestants 
twisted the Word of God against all justice.” 

Isabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of 
view was new to her. And yet again in the garden, a few months 
later, as they sat out together on the lawn, the girl opened the 
same subject. 

‘Mistress Margaret,” she said, “I have been thinking a great 
deal; and it seems very plain when you talk. But you know our 
great divines could answer you, though I cannot. My father 
was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal and the Bishops are all wise men. 
How do you answer that?” 

The nun looked silently down at the grass a moment or two. 

“It is the old tale,” she said at last, looking up; ‘‘we cannot 





SOME NEW LESSONS 161 


believe that the babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in 
such matters as the wise and prudent—even more likely, if our 
Saviour’s words are to be believed. Dear child, do you not see 
that our Lord came to save all men, and call all men into His 
Church; and that therefore He must have marked His Church in 
such a manner that the most ignorant may perceive it as easily 
as the most learned? Learning is very well, and it is the gift of 
God; but salvation and grace cannot depend upon it. It needs 
an architect to understand why Paul’s Church is strong and 
beautiful, and what makes it so; but any child or foolish fellow 
can see that it is so.” 

“T do not understand,” said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead. 

“Why this—that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church 
when you see it, as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father 
himself. Only a divine can explain about it and understand it, 
but you and I are as fit to see it and walk into it, as any of them.” 

“But then why are they not all Catholics?” asked Isabel, still 
bewildered. 

“Ah!” said the nun, softly, “God alone knows, who reads hearts 
and calls whom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to 
do with it.” 

Conversations of this kind that took place now and then be- 
tween the two were sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like 
tiny bubbles on the surface of a clear stream, the swift movement 
of this limpid soul that she loved so well. But on the other hand, 
all the girl’s past life, and most sacred and dear associations, 
were in conflict with this movement; the memory of her quiet, 
wise father rose and reproached her sometimes; Anthony’s enthu- 
siastic talk, when he came down from Lambeth, on the glorious 
destinies of the Church of England, of her gallant protest against 
the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position in 
Christendom as the National Church of the most progressive 
country—all this caused her to shrink back terrified from the 
bourne to which she was drifting, and from the breach that must 
follow with her brother. But above all else that caused her pain 
was the shocking suspicion that her love for Hubert perhaps was 
influencing her, and that she was living in gross self-deception as 
to the sincerity of her motives. 

This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old 
nun; it took place one summer night after Hubert’s departure in 
Mr. Drake’s expedition. Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to 
her room, and an hour later had finished her night-office and was 


162 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


thinking of preparing herself to bed, when there was a hurried 
tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly in, her face pale and 
miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and distraction, and 
her hair on her shoulders. 

“My dear child,” said the nun, “what is it?” 

Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips 
parted. 

“How can I know, Mistress Margaret,” she said, in the voice 
of a sleep-walker, ‘“‘whether this is the voice of God or of my 
own wicked self? No, no,’ she went on, as the other came 
towards her, frightened, ‘Jet me tell you. 1 must speak.” 

“Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first,”’ and 
she drew her to a chair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over 
her knees and feet; and sat down beside her, and took one of 
her hands, and held it between her own. 

“‘Now then, Isabel, what is it?” 

“J have been thinking over it all so long,” began the girl, in 
the same tremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun’s face, 
“and to-night in bed I could not bear it any longer. You see, 
I love Hubert, and I used to think I loved our Saviour too; but 
now I do not know. It seems as if He was leading me to the 
Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easy there—it 
seems—it seems—to make sense in the Catholic Church; and all 
the rest of us are wandering in the dark. But if I become a 
Catholic, you see, I can marry Hubert then; and I cannot help 
thinking of that; and wanting to marry him. But then perhaps 
that is the reason that I think I see it all so plainly; just because 
I want to see it plainly. And what am I to do? Why will not 
our Lord shew me my own heart and what is His Will?” 

Mistress Margaret shook her head gently. 

“Dear child,” she said, “our Saviour loves you and wishes to 
make you happy. Do you not think that perhaps He is helping 
you and making it easy in this way, by drawing you to His 
Church through Hubert. Why should not both be His Will? 
that you should become a Catholic and marry Hubert as well?” 

“Ves,” said Isabel, “but how can I tell?” 

“There is only one thing to be done,” went on the old lady, 
“be quite simple and quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be 
disturbed and anxious, put yourself in His Hands, and refuse to 
decide for yourself. It is so easy, so easy.” 

“But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not 
our Lord speaking and warning me?” 


SOME NEW LESSONS 163 


“In the Catholic Church,” said Mistress Margaret, ‘““we know 
well about all those movements of the soul; and we call them 
scruples. You must resist them, dear child, like temptations. 
We are told that if a soul is in grace and desires to serve God, 
then whenever our Lord speaks it is to bring sweetness with Him; 
and when it is the evil one, he brings disturbance. And that is 
why I am sure that these questionings are not from God. You 
feel stifled, is it not so, when you try to pray? and all seems 
empty of God; the waves and storms are going over you. But 
lie still and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; and you will 
soon be at peace again and see the light clearly.” 

Mistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words 
and sentences as to a child. She had seen that for a long while 
past the clouds had been gathering over Isabel, and that her 
soul was at present completely overcast and unable to perceive 
or decide anything clearly; and so she gave her this simple advice, 
and did her utmost to soothe her, knowing that such a clean soul 
would not be kept long in the dark. 

She knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with 
her, in a quiet even voice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, 
and something of its white serenity seemed to be in the old nun’s 
tones as she entreated the merciful Lord to bid peace again to this 
anxious soul, and let her see light again through the dark. 

And when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room 
at last, and had seen her safely into bed, and kissed her. good- 
night, already the girl’s face was quieter as it lay on the pillow, 
and the lines were smoothed out of her forehead. 

“God bless you!” said Mistress Margaret. 


CHAPTER III 
HUBERT’S RETURN 


AFTER the sailing of Mr. Drake’s expedition, the friends of the 
adventurers had to wait in patience for several months before 
news arrived. Then the Elizabeth, under the command of Mr. 
Winter, which had been separated from Mr. Drake’s Pelican in 
a gale off the south-west coast of America, returned to England, 
bringing the news of Mr. Doughty’s execution for desertion; but 
of the Pelican herself there was no further news until complaints 
arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake’s ravages 
up the west coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months. 

Anthony had followed the fortunes of the Pelican, in which 
Hubert had sailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with 
real relief that after the burst of joy in London at the news of 
her safe return to Plymouth with an incalculable amount of 
plunder, he had word from Lady Maxwell that she hoped he 
would come down at once to Great Keynes, and help to welcome 
Hubert home. He was not able to go at once, for his duties 
detained him; but a couple of days after the Hall had welcomed 
its new master, Anthony was at the Dower House again with 
Isabel. He found her extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and 
was delighted at the change, for he had been troubled the last 
time he had seen her a few months before, at her silence and 
listlessness; but her face was radiant now, as she threw herself 
into his arms at the door, and told him that they were all to go 
to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert had been 
keeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed 
him, when they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert 
had given her—carved nuts, a Spanish coin or two, and an ingot 
of gold—but of which she would say nothing, but only laugh and 
nod her head. 

Hubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of 
the same sort of half-suppressed happiness that shone out now 
and again suddenly. There he sat, for hours after supper that 
night, broader and more sunburnt than ever, with his brilliant 

164 


HUBERT’S RETURN 165 


eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy man’s hand, in 
the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory movements, 
and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on the polished 
oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly, 
or leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found 
himself, too, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as 
he looked at this gallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and 
jewels, and listened to his stories. 

“Tt was bitter cold,” said Hubert in his strong voice, telling 
them of Mr. Doughty’s death, “on the morning itself: and snow 
lay on the decks when we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table 
in the poop-cabin, with a white cloth and bread and wine; and 
at nine of the clock we were all assembled where we might see 
into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said the Communion service, 
and Mr. Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacrament there 
at his hands. Some of Mr. Doughty’s men had all they could 
do to keep back their tears; for you know, mother, they were good 
friends. And then when it was done, we made two lines down 
the deck to where the block stood by the main-mast; and the two 
came down together; and they kissed one another there. And 
Mr. Doughty spoke to the men, and bade them pray for the 
Queen’s Grace with him; and they did. And then he and Mr. 
Drake put off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, 
and said another prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and 
he was shivering a little with cold, and then, when he gave the 
sign, Mr. Drake ” and Hubert brought the edge of his hand 
down sharply, and the glasses rang, and the ladies drew quick 
hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her hand on her son’s 
arm, as he looked round on all their faces. 

Then he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of 
the towns they sacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off 
his tongue, and seemed to bring a whiff of southern scent into this 
panelled English room,—Valparaiso, Tarapaca, and Arica—; and 
of the capture of the Cacafuego off Quibdo; and of the enormous 
treasure they took, the great golden crucifix with emeralds of the 
size of pigeon’s eggs, and the chests of pearls, and the twenty-six 
tons of silver, and the wedges of pure gold from the Peruvian 
galleon, and of the golden falcon from the Chinese trader that 
they captured south of Guatulco. And he described the search 
up the coast for the passage eastwards that never existed; and 
of Drake’s superb resolve to return westwards instead, by the 
Moluccas; and how they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, 





166 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


and coasted along Java seeking a passage, and found it in the 
Sunda straits, and broke out from the treacherous islands into 
the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded the Cape of Good Hope; 
came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, and so home 
again along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound 
and the pealing of Plymouth bells. 

And he broke out into something very like eloquence when he 
spoke of Drake. 

“Never was such a captain,” he cried, “with his little stiff 
beard and his obstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the poop, 
when the arrows were like hail on the deck, with one finger in 
the ring round his neck,—so”: and Hubert thrust a tanned finger 
into a link of his chain, and lifted his chin, “just making little 
signs to the steersman, with his hand behind his back, to bring 
the ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool, I tell you, as cool as if 
he were playing merelles. Oh! and then when we boarded, out 
came his finger from his ring; and there was none that struck 
so true and fierce; and all in silence too, without an oath or a 
cry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But he was very 
sharp with all that angered him. When we sighted the Madre di 
Dios, I ran into his cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so 
full was my head of the chase. And he looked at me like ice; 
and then roared at me to know where my manners were, and bade 
me go out and enter again properly, before he would hear my 
news; and then I heard him rating the man that stood at his 
door for letting me pass in that state. At his dinner, too, which 
he took alone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when her 
Grace dines. When he laughed it seemed as if he did it with 
a grave face. There was a piece of grand fooling when we got 
out from among those weary Indian islands; where the great 
crabs be, and flies that burn in the dark, as I told you. Mr. 
Fletcher, the minister, played the coward one night when we ran 
aground; and bade us think of our sins and our immortal souls, 
instead of urging us to be smart about the ship; and he did it, 
too, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholy voice 
as if we were all at our last hour; so when we were free of our 
trouble, and out on the main again, we were all called by the 
drum to the forecastle, and there Mr. Drake sat on a sea-chest 
as solemn as a judge, so that not a man durst laugh, with a pair 
of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcher was brought before 
him, trying to smile as if ’twas a jest for him too, between two 
guards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses were 


HUBERT’S RETURN 167 


called; and Tom Moore said how he was tapped on the shoulder 
by Mr. Fletcher as he was getting a pick from the hold; and how 
he was as white as a ghost and bade him think on Mr. Doughty, 
how there was no mercy for him when he needed it, and so there 
would be none for us—and then other witnesses came, and then 
Mr. Fletcher tried to make his defence, saying how it was the 
part of a minister to bid men think on their souls; but ’twas no 
good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentenced him to be 
kept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, 
which was the cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, 
Mr. Drake declared him excommunicate, and cut off from the 
Church of God, and given over to the devil. And he was put in 
irons, too, for a while; so ’twas not all a joke.” 

“And what is Mr. Drake doing now?” asked Lady Maxwell. 

“Oh! Drake is in London,” said Hubert. “Ah! yes, and you 
must all come to Deptford when her Grace is going to be there. 
Anthony, lad, you’ll come?” 

Anthony said he would certainly do his best; and Isabel put 
out her hand to her brother, and beamed at him; and then turned 
to look at Hubert again. 

“And what are you to do next?” asked Mistress Margaret. 

“Well,” he said, “I am to go to Plymouth again presently, to 
help to get the treasure out of the ships; and I must be there, 
too, for the spring and summer, for Drake wants me to help him 
with his new expedition.” 

“But you are not going with him again, my son?” said his 
mother quickly. 

Hubert put out his hand to her. 

“No, no,” he said, “I have written to tell him I cannot. I 
must take my father’s place here. He will understand”; and he 
gave one swift glance at Isabel, and her eyes fell. 

Anthony was obliged to return to Lambeth after a day or two, 
and he carried with him a heart full of admiration and enthusiasm 
for his friend. He had wondered once or twice, too, as his eyes 
fell on Isabel, whether there was anything in what Mistress 
Corbet had said; but he dared not speak to her, and still less to 
Hubert, unless his confidence was first sought. 

The visit to Deptford, which took place a week or two later, 
gave an additional spurt to Anthony’s nationalism. London was 
all on fire at the return of the buccaneers, and as Anthony rode 
down the south bank of the river from Lambeth to join the others 
at the inn, the three miles of river beyond London Bridge were 


168 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


an inspiriting sight in the bright winter sunshine, crowded with 
craft of all kinds, bright with bunting, that were making their way 
down to the naval triumph. The road, too, was thick with vehicles 
and pedestrians. 

It was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert 
took them immediately to see the Pelican that was drawn up in 
a little creek on the south bank. Mistress Margaret had not 
come, so the four went together all over the ship that had been 
for these years the perilous home of this sunburnt lad they all 
loved so well. Hubert pointed out Drake’s own cabin at the poop, 
with its stern-windows, where the last sacrament of the two friends 
had been celebrated; and where Drake himself had eaten in 
royal fashion to the sound of trumpets and slept with all-night 
sentries at his door. He showed them too his own cabin, where 
he had lived with three more officers, and the upper poop-deck 
where Drake would sit hour after hour with his spy-glass, ranging 
the horizons for treasure-ships. And he showed them, too, the 
high forecastle, and the men’s quarters; and Isabel fingered deli- 
cately the touch-holes of the very guns that had roared and 
snapped so fiercely at the Dons; and they peered down into the 
dark empty hold where the treasure-chests had lain, and up at 
the three masts and the rigging that had borne so long the swift 
wings of the Pelican. And they heard the hiss and rattle of the 
ropes as Hubert ordered a man to run up a flag to show them how 
it was done; and they smelled the strange tarry briny smell of a 
sea-going ship. 

“You are not tired?” Anthony said to his sister, as they walked 
back to the inn from which they were to see the spectacle. She 
shook her head happily; and Anthony, looking at her, once more 
questioned himself whether Mistress Corbet were right or not. 

When they had settled down at last to their window, the crowds 
were gathering thicker every moment about the entrance to the 
ship, which lay in the creek perhaps a hundred yards from the 
inn, and on the road along which the Queen was to come from 
Greenwich. Anthony felt his whole heart go out in sympathy to 
these joyous shouting folk beneath, who were here to celebrate 
the gallant pluck of a little bearded man and his followers, who 
for the moment stood for England, and in whose presence just 
now the Queen herself must take second place. Even the quacks 
and salesmen who were busy in their booths all round used 
patriotism to push their bargains. 

“Spanish ointment, Spanish ointment!” bellowed a red-faced 


HUBERT’S RETURN 169 


herbalist in a doctor’s gown, just below the window. “The Dons 
know what’s best for wounds and knocks after Frankie Drake’s 
visit”; and the crowd laughed and bought up his boxes. And 
another drove a roaring business in green glass beads, reported 
to be the exact size of the emeralds taken from the Cacafuego; 
and others sold little models of the Pelican, warranted to frighten 
away Dons and all other kinds of devils from the house that pos- 
sessed one. Isabel laughed with pleasure, and sent Anthony down 
to buy one for her. 

But perhaps more than all else the sight of the seamen them- 
selves stirred his heart. Most of them, officers as weil as men, 
were dressed with absurd extravagance, for the prize-money, even 
after the deduction of the Queen’s lion-share, had been immense, 
but beneath their-plumed and jewel-buckled caps, brown faces 
looked out, alert and capable, with tight lips and bright, puckered 
eyes, with something of the terrier in their expression. There 
they swaggered along with a slight roll in their walk, by ones or 
twos, through the crowd that formed lanes to let them pass, and 
surged along in their wake, shouting after them and clapping 
them on the back. Anthony watched them eagerly as they made 
their way from all directions to where the Pelican lay; for it. was 
close on noon. Then from far away came the boom of the Tower 
guns, and then the nearer crash of those that guarded the dock- 
yard; and last the deafening roar of the Pelican broadside; and 
then the smoke rose and drifted in a heavy veil in the keen frosty 
air over the cheering crowds. When it lifted again, there was the 
flash of gold and colour from the Greenwich road, and the high 
braying of the trumpets pierced the roaring welcome of the 
people. But the watchers at the windows could see no more over 
the heads of the crowd than the plumes of the royal carriage, as 
the Queen dismounted, and a momentary glimpse of her figure 
and the group round her as she passed on to the deck of the 
Pelican and went immediately below to the banquet, while the 
parish church bells pealed a welcome. 

Lady Maxwell insisted that Isabel should now dine, as there 
would be no more to be seen till the Queen should come up on 
deck again. 

Of the actual ceremony of the knighting of Mr. Drake they 
had a very fair view, though the figures were little and far away. 
The first intimation they had that the banquet was over was 
the sight of the scarlet-clad yeomen emerging one by one up 
the little hatchway that led below. The halberdiers lined the 


170 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


decks already, with their weapons flashing in long curved lines; 
and by the time that the trumpets began to sound to show that 
the Queen was on her way from below, the decks were one dense 
mass of colour and steel, with a lane left to the foot of the poop- 
stairs by which she would ascend. Then at last the two figures 
appeared, the Queen radiant in cloth of gold, and Mr. Drake, 
alert and brisk, in his Court suit and sword. There was silence 
from the crowd as the adventurer knelt before the Queen, and 
Anthony held his breath with excitement as he caught the flash 
of the slender sword that an officer had put into the Queen’s 
hand; and then an inconceivable noise broke out as Sir Francis 
Drake stood up. The crowd was one open mouth, shouting, the 
church bells burst into peals overhead, answered by the roll of 
drums from the deck and the blare of trumpets; and then the 
whole din sank into nothingness for a moment under the heart- 
shaking crash of the ship’s broadside, echoed instantly by the 
deeper roar of the dockyard guns, and answered after a moment 
or two from far away by the dull boom‘from the Tower. And 
Anthony leaned yet further from the window and added his voice 
to the tumult. 

As he rode back alone to Lambeth, after parting with the others 
at London Bridge, for they intended to go down home again that 
night, he was glowing with national zeal. He had seen not only 
royalty and magnificence but an apotheosis of character that day. 
There in the little trim figure with the curly hair kneeling before 
the Queen was England at its best—England that sent two ships 
against an empire; and it was the Church that claimed Sir 
Francis Drake as a son, and indeed a devoted one, in a sense, that 
' Anthony himself was serving here at Lambeth, and for which he 
felt a real and fervent enthusiasm. 

He was surprised a couple of days later to receive a note in 
Lady Maxwell’s handwriting, brought up by a special messenger 
from the Hall. 

“There is a friend of mine,” she wrote, “to come to Lambeth 
House presently, he tells me, to be kept a day or two in ward 
before he is sent to Wisbeach. He is a Catholic, named Mr. 
Henry Buxton, who showed me great love during the sorrow of 
my dear husband’s death; and I write to you to show kindness 
to him, and to get him a good bed, and all that may comfort him: 
for I know not whether Lambeth Prison is easy or hard; but I 
hope perhaps that since my Lord Archbishop is a prisoner him- 
self he has pity on such as are so too; and so my pains be in 


HUBERT’S RETURN 171 


vain. However, if you will see Mr. Buxton at least, and have 
some talk with him, and show him this letter, it will cheer him 
perhaps to see a friend’s face.” 

Anthony of course made inquiries at once, and found that Mr. 
Buxton was to arrive on the following afternoon. It was the 
custom to send prisoners occasionally to Lambeth, more particu- 
larly those more distinguished, or who, it was hoped, could be 
persuaded to friendly conference. Mr. Buxton, however, was 
thought to be incorrigible, and was only sent there because there 
was some delay in the preparations for his reception at Wisbeach, 
which since the previous year had been used as an overflow prison 
for Papists. 

On the evening of the next day, which was Friday, Anthony 
went straight out from the Hall after supper to the gateway 
prison, and found Mr. Buxton at a fish supper in the little prison 
in the outer part of the eastern tower. He introduced himself, 
but found it necessary to show Lady Maxwell’s letter before the 
prisoner was satisfied as to his identity. 

“You must pardon me, Mr. Norris,” he said, when he had 
read the letter and asked a question or two, “but we poor Papists 
are bound to be shy. Why, in this very room,” he went. on, 
pointing to the inner corner away from the door, and smiling, 
“for aught I know a man sits now to hear us.” 

Anthony was considerably astonished to see this stranger point 
so confidently to the hiding-hole, where indeed the warder used 
to sit sometimes behind a brick partition, to listen to the talk of 
the prisoners; and showed his surprise. 

“Ah, Mr. Norris,” the other said, “‘we Papists are bound to be 
well informed; or else where were our lives? But come, sir, let 
us sit down.” 

Anthony apologised for interrupting him at his supper, and 
offered to come again, but Mr. Buxton begged him not to leave, 
as he had nearly finished. So Anthony sat down, and observed 
the prison and the prisoner. It was fairly well provided with 
necessaries: a good straw bed lay in one corner on trestles; and 
washing utensils stood at the further wall; and there was an oil 
lamp that hung high up from an iron pin. The prisoner’s luggage 
lay still half unpacked on the floor, and a row of pegs held a hat 
and a cloak. Mr. Buxton himself was a dark-haired man with 
a short beard and merry bright eyes; and was dressed soberly as 
a gentleman; and behaved himself with courtesy and assurance. 
But it was a queer place with this flickering lamp, thought 


172 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Anthony, for a gentleman to be eating his supper in. When Mr. 
Buxton had finished his dish of roach and a tankard of ale, he 
looked up at Anthony, smiling. 

“My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then,” he said, pointing 
to the bones on his plate. 

Anthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday 
abstinence, too. 

“Ah yes,” said the other, “I was forgetting the Queen’s late 
injunctions. Let us see; how did it run? ‘The same is not 
required for any liking of Papish Superstitions or Ceremonies 
(is it?) hitherto used, which utterly are to be detested of all 
Christian folk’; (no, the last word or two is a gloss), ‘but only 
-to maintain the mariners in this land, and to set men a-fishing.’ 
That is the sense of it, is it not, sir? You fast, that is, not for 
heavenly reasons, which were a foolish and Papish thing to do; 
but for earthly reasons, which is a reasonable and Protestant 
thing to do.” 

Anthony might have taken this assault a little amiss, if he 
had not seen a laughing light in his companion’s eyes; and re- 
membered, too, that imprisonment is apt to breed a little bitter- 
ness. So he smiled back at him. Then soon they fell to talking 
of Lady Maxwell. and Great Keynes, where it seemed that Mr. 
Buxton had stayed more than once. 

“T knew Sir Nicholas well,” he said, “God rest his soul. It 
seems to me he is one of those whose life continually gave the 
lie to men who say that a Catholic can be no true Englishman. 
There never beat a more loyal heart than his.” : 

Anthony agreed; but asked if it were not true that Catholics 
were in difficulties sometimes as to the proper authority to be 
obeyed—the Pope or the Prince. 

“Tt is true,” said the other, “or it might be. Yet the principle 
is clear, Date Cesari quae sunt Cesaris. The difficulty lies but 
in the application of the maxim.” 

“But with us,” said Anthony—‘‘Church of England folk,— 
there hardly can be ever any such difficulty; for the Prince of 
the State is the Governor of the Church as well.” 

“IT take your point,’ said Mr. Buxton. “You mean that a 
National Church is better, for that spiritual and temporal authori- 
ties are then at one.” 

“Just so,” said Anthony, beginning to warm to his favourite 
theme. “The Church is the nation regarded as religious. When 
England wars on land it is through her army, which is herself 


HUBERT’S RETURN 173 


under arms; when on sea she embarks in the navy; and in the 
warfare with spiritual powers, it is through her Church. And 
surely in this way the Church must always be the Church of the 
people. The Englishman and the Spaniard are like cat and dog; 
they like not the same food nor the same kind of coat; I hear 
that their buildings are not like ours; their language, nay, their 
faces and minds, are not like ours. Then why should be their 
prayers and their religion? I quarrel with no foreigner’s faith; 
it is God who made us so.” 

Anthony stopped, breathless with his unusual eloquence; but 
it was the subject that lay nearest to his heart at present, and he 
found no lack of words. The prisoner had watched him with 
twinkling eyes, nodding his head as if in agreement; and when he 
had finished his little speech, nodded again in meditative silence. 

“Tt is complete,’’ he answered, “complete. And as a theory 
would be convincing; and I envy you, Master Norris, for you 
stand on the top of the wave. That is what England holds. 
But, my dear sir, Christ our Lord refused such a kingdom as that. 
My kingdom, He said, is not of this world—is not, that is, ruled 
by the world’s divisions and systems. You have described Babel, 
—every nation with its own language. But it was to undo Babel 
and to build one spiritual city that our Saviour came down, and 
sent the Holy Ghost to make the Church at Pentecost out of 
Arabians and Medes and Elamites—to break down the partition- 
walls, as the apostle tells us,——that there be neither Jew nor 
Greek, barbarian nor Scythian—and to establish one vast king- 
dom (which for that very reason we name Catholic), to destroy 
differences between nation and nation, by lifting each to be of 
the People of God—to pull down Babel, the City of Confusion, 
and build Jerusalem the City of Peace. Dear God!” cried Mr. 
Buxton, rising in his excitement, and standing over Anthony, 
who looked at him astonished and bewildered. ‘You and your 
England would parcel out the Kingdom of heaven into national 
Churches, as you name them—among all the kingdoms of the 
world; and yet you call yourself the servants of Him who came 
to do just the opposite—yes, and who will do it, in spite of you, 
and make the kingdoms of this world, instead, the Kingdom of 
our Lord and of His Christ. Why, if each nation is to have her 
Church, why not each county and each town—yes, and each 
separate soul, too; for all are different! Nay, nay, Master Norris, 
you are blinded by the Prince of this world. He is shewing you 
even now from an high mountain the kingdoms of this world and 


174 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the glory of them: lift your eyes, dear lad, to the hills from 
whence cometh your help; those hills higher than the mountain 
where you stand; and see the new Jerusalem, and the glory of 
her, coming down from God to dwell with men.” 

Mr. Buxton stood, his eyes blazing, plainly carried away wholly 
by enthusiasm; and Anthony, in spite of himself, could not be 
angry. He moistened his lips once or twice. 

“Well, sir; of course I hold with what you say, in one sense; 
but it is not come yet; and never will, till our Lord comes back 
to make all plain.” 

“Not come yet?” cried the other, “Not come yet! Why, what 
is the one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church but that? There 
you have one visible kingdom, gathered out of every nation and 
tongue and people, as the apostle said. I have a little estate in 
France, Master Norris, where I go sometimes; and there are folk 
in their wooden shoes, talking a different human tongue to me, 
but, thank God! the same divine one—of contrition and adora- 
tion and prayer. There we have the same mass, the same priest- 
hood, the same blessed sacrament and the same Faith, as in my 
own little oratory at Stanfield. Go to Spain, Africa, Rome, India; 
wherever Christ is preached; there is the Church as it is here— 
the City of Peace. And as for you and your Church! with whom 
do you hold communion?” 

This stung Anthony, and he answered impulsively. 

“In Geneva and Frankfort, at least, there are folk who speak 
the same divine tongue, as you call it, as we do; they and we 
are agreed in matters of faith.” 

“Indeed,” said Mr. Buxton sharply, “then what becomes of 
your Nationalism, and the varied temperaments that you told me 
God had made?” 

Anthony bit his lip; he had overshot his mark. But the other 
swept on; and as he talked began to step up and down the little 
room, in a kind of rhapsody. 

“Ts it possible?” he cried, “that men should be so blind as to 
prefer the little divided companies they name National Churches 
—all confusion and denial—to that glorious kingdom that Christ 
bought with his own dear blood, and has built upon Peter, against 
which the gates of hell shall not prevail. Yes, I know it is a 
flattering and a pleasant thought that this little nation should 
have her own Church; and it is humbling and bitter that England 
should be called to submit to a foreign potentate in the affairs of 
faith—Nay, cry they like the Jews of old, not Christ but 


HUBERT’S RETURN 175 


Barabbas—we will not have this Man to reign over us. And 
yet this is God’s will and not that. Mark me, Mr. Norris, what 
you hope will never come to be—the Liar will not keep his word 
—you shall not have that National Church that you desire: as 
you have dealt, so will it be dealt to you: as you have rejected, 
so will you be rejected. England herself will cast you off: your 
religious folk will break into a hundred divisions. Even now 
your Puritans mock at your prelates—so soon! And if they do 
this now, what will they do hereafter? You have cast away 
Authority, and authority shall forsake you. Behold your house 
is left unto you desolate.” 

“Forgive me, Mr. Norris,” he added after a pause, “if I have 
been discourteous, and have forgotten my manners; but—but I 
would, as the apostle said, that you were altogether as I am, 
except these bonds.” 


CHAPTER IV 
A COUNTER-MARCH 


IsABEL was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, 
one afternoon in the summer following the visit to Deptford. 
Hubert was down at Plymouth, assisting in the preparations for 
the expedition that Drake hoped to conduct against Spain. The 
two countries were technically at peace, but the object with which 
he was going out, with the moral and financial support of the 
Queen, was a corporate demonstration against Spain, of French, 
Portuguese, and English ships under the main command of Don 
Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it was proposed to occupy 
Terceira in the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertained the 
highest hopes of laying their hands on further plunder. 

She was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her 
head, thinking over her relations with Hubert. When he had 
been at home at the end of the previous year, he had apparently 
taken it for granted that the marriage would be celebrated; he 
had given her the gold nugget, that she had showed Anthony, 
telling her he had brought it home for the wedding-ring; and she 
understood that he was to come for his final answer as soon as 
his work at Plymouth was over. But not a word of explanation 
had passed between them on the religious difficulty. He had 
silenced her emphatically and kindly once when she had ap- 
proached it; and she gathered from his manner that he suspected 
the direction in which her mind was turning and was generously 
unwilling for her to commit herself an inch further than she saw. 
Else whence came his assurance? And, for herself, things were 
indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitated so 
long, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above 
the edge; it needed but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all. 

And so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy 
impatience at the workings of her own soul; for she dared not 
act without the final touch of conviction. Mistress Margaret had 
taught her that the swiftest flight of the soul was when there 
was least movement, when the soul knew how to throw itself with 
that supreme effort of cessation into the Hands of God, that He 

176 


A COUNTER-MARCH 177 


might bear it along: when, after informing the intellect and seek- 
ing by prayer for God’s bounty, the humble client of Heaven 
waited with uplifted eyes and ready heart until God should 
answer. And so she waited, knowing that the gift was at hand, 
yet not daring to snatch it. But, in the meanwhile, her imagina- 
tion at least might act without restraint; so she sent it out, like 
a bird from the Ark, to bring her the earnest of peace. There, 
in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay the chapel, where she and 
Hubert would kneel together;—somewhere beneath that grey 
roof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as 
one who has a right there. Which of these windows would be 
hers? Not Lady Maxwell’s, of course; she must keep that... . 
Ah! how good God was! 

The tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret 
peered out with a letter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and 
the old nun came down the steps into the garden. Why did she 
walk so falteringly, the girl wondered, as if she could not see? 
What was it? What was it? 

Isabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head 
came up the path. ‘What is it, Mistress Margaret?” 

The other tried to smile at her, but her lips were trembling 
too much; and the girl saw that her eyes were brimming with 
tears. She put the letter into her hand. 

Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, 
in Hubert’s handwriting. 

“What is it?” she said again, white to the lips. 

The old lady as she turned away glanced at her; and Isabel 
saw that her face was all twitching with the effort to keep back 
her tears. The girl had never seen her like that before, even at 
Sir Nicholas’ death. Was there anything, she wondered as she 
looked, worse than death? But she was too dazed by the sight 
to speak, and Mistress Margaret went slowly back to the house 
unquestioned. 

Isabel turned the letter over once or twice; and then sat down 
and opened it. It was all in Hubert’s sprawling handwriting, 
and was dated from Plymouth. 

It gave her news first about the squadron; saying how Don 
Antonio had left London for Plymouth, and was expected daily; 
and then followed this paragraph: 

‘““And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. 
I have turned Protestant; and there is no reason why we should 
not be married as soon as [ return. I know this will make you 


178 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


happy to think that our religions are no longer different. I 
have thought of this so long; but would not tell you before for 
fear of disappointing you. Sir Francis Drake’s religion seems 
to me the best; it is the religion of all the ‘sea-dogs’ as they name 
us; and of the Queen’s Grace, and it will be soon of all England; 
and more than all it is the religion of my dearest mistress and 
love. I do not, of course, know very much of it as yet; but 
good Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions of Popery; 
and I hope now to be justified by faith without works as the 
gospel teaches. I fear that my mother and aunt will be much 
distressed by this news; I have written, too, to tell them of it. 
You must comfort them, dear love; and perhaps some day they, 
too, will see as we do.” Then followed a few messages, and loving 
phrases, and the letter ended. 

Isabel laid it down beside her on the low stone wall; and 
looked round her with eyes that saw nothing. ‘There was the 
grey old house before her, and the terrace, and the cloister-wing 
to the left, and the hot sunshine lay on it all, and drew out 
scents and colours from the flower-beds, and joy from the insects 
that danced in the trembling air; and it all meant nothing to her; 
like a picture when the page is turned over it. Five minutes ago 
she was regarding her life and seeing how the Grace of God was 
slowly sorting out its elements from chaos to order—the road 
was unwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on it day by 
day—now a hand had swept all back into disorder, and the path 
was hidden by the ruins. 

Then gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before 
her, vivid and startling; and in all its terrible reality slipped 
between her and the visible world on which she was staring. It 
was this: to embrace the Catholic Faith meant the renouncing of 
Hubert. As a Protestant she might conceivably have married a 
Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivable that she should 
marry an apostate. 

Then she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; 
and was astonished at the unreality of Hubert’s words about 
Romish superstition and gospel simplicity. She tried hard to 
silence her thoughts; but two reasons for Hubert’s change of 
religion rose up and insisted on making themselves felt; it was 
that he might be more in unity with the buccaneers whom he 
admired; second, that there might be no obstacle to their mar- 
riage. And what then, she asked, was the quality of the heart 
he had given her? 


A COUNTER-MARCH 179 


Then, in a flash of intuition, she perceived that a struggle lay 
before her, compared with which all her previous spiritual con- 
flicts were as child’s play; and that there was no avoiding it. 
The vision passed, and she rose and went indoors to find the 
desolate mother whose boy had lost the Faith. 

A month or two of misery went by. For Lady Maxwell they 
passed with recurring gusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies 
of prayer for her apostate son. Mistress Margaret was at the 
Hall all day, soothing, encouraging, even distracting her sister 
by all the means in her power. The mother wrote one passionate 
wail to her son, appealing to all that she thought he held dear, 
even yet to return to the Faith for which his father had suffered 
and in which he had died; but a short answer only returned, saying _ 
it was Impossible to make his defence in a letter, and expressing 
pious hopes that she, too, one day would be as he was; the same 
courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which he expressed his 
wonder that she had not answered his former one. 

And as for Isabel, she had to pass through this valley of dark- 
ness alone. Anthony was in London; and even if he had been 
with her could not have helped her under these circumstances; 
her father was dead—she thanked God for that now—and Mis- 
tress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister’s grief. And so 
the girl fought with devils alone. The arguments for Catholicism 
burned pitilessly clear now; every line and feature in them stood 
out distinct and hard. Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone 
had the marks of the Bride, visible Unity, visible Catholicity, 
visible Apostolicity, visible Sanctity;—there they were, the seals 
of the Most High God. She flung herself back furiously into 
the Protestantism from which she had been emerging; there 
burned in the dark before her the marks of the Beast, visible 
disunion, visible nationalism, visible Erastianism, visible gulfs 
where holiness should be: that system in which now she could 
never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincing inco- 
herence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with the civil 
power instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. She 
wondered once more how she dared to have hesitated so long; 
or dared to hesitate still. 

On the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind 
started out, strong and irrefutable; her emotional drawings 
towards Catholicism for the present retired. Feelings might have 
been disregarded or discredited by a strong effort of the will; 
these apparently cold phenomena that presented themselves to her 


180 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


intellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet, strangely enough, 
even now she would not throw herself resolutely into Catholicism: 
the fierce stimulus instead of precipitating the crisis, petrified it. 
More than once she started up from her knees in her own dark 
room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell her she would wait 
no longer, but would turn Catholic at once and have finished with 
the misery of suspense: and even as she moved to the door her 
will found itself against an impenetrable wall. 

And then on the other side all her human nature cried out for 
Hubert—Hubert-—Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day 
and night, that chivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to 
her so long; had waited so patiently; had run to her with such 
dear impatience; who was so wholesome, so strong, so humble to 
her; so quick to understand her wants, so eager to fulfil them; 
so bound to her by associations; so fit a mate for the very differ- 
ences between them. And now these two claims were no longer 
compatible; in his very love for her he had ended that possibility. 
All those old dreams; the little scenes she had rehearsed, of their 
first mass, their first communion together; their walks in the 
twilight; their rides over the hills; the new ties that were to 
draw the old ladies at the Hall and herself so close together— 
all this was changed; some of those dreams were now for ever 
impossible, others only possible on terms that she trembled even 
to think of. Perhaps it was worst of all to reflect that she was in 
some measure responsible for his change of religion; she fancied 
that it was through her slowness to respond to light, her delaying 
to confide in him, that he had been driven through impatience to 
take this step. And so week after week went by and she dared 
not answer his letter. 

The old ladies, too, were sorely puzzled at her. It was impos- 
sible for them to know how far her religion was changing. She 
had kept up the same reserve towards them lately as towards 
Hubert, chiefly because she feared to disappoint them; and so 
after an attempt to tell each other a little of their mutual sym- 
pathy, the three women were silent on the subject of the lad who 
was so much to them all. 

She began to show her state a little in her movements and 
appearance. She was languid, soon tired and dispirited; she 
would go for short, lonely walks, and fall asleep in her chair 
worn out when she came in. Her grey eyes looked longer and 
darker; her eyelids and the corners of her mouth began to droop 
a little. 


A COUNTER-MARCH 181 


Then in October he came home. 

Isabel had been out a long afternoon walk by herself through 
the reddening woods. They had never, since the first awakening 
of the consciousness of beauty in her, meant so little to her as 
now. It appeared as if that keen unity of a life common to her 
and all living things had been broken or obscured; and that she 
walked in an isolation all the more terrible in that she was sur- 
rounded by the dumb presence of what she loved. Last year the 
quick chattering cry of the blackbird, the evening mists over 
the meadows, the stir of the fading life of the woods, the rustling 
scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemn call of 
the homing rooks—all this, only last year, went to make up the 
sweet natural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed 
at ease. Now she was excommunicate from that pleasant friend- 
ship, banned by nature and forgotten by the God who made it 
and was immanent within it. Her relations to the Saviour, who 
only such a short time ago had been the Person round whom 
all the joys of life had centred, from whom they radiated, and 
to whom she referred them all—these relations had begun to be 
obscured by her love for Hubert, and now had vanished alto- 
gether. She had regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover as 
two persons, each of whom had certain claims upon her heart, 
and each of whom she had hoped to satisfy in different ways; 
instead of identifying the two, and serving each not apart from, 
but in the other. And it now seemed to her that she was making 
experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to be 
satisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by 
internal conflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and 
repulsion between the poles of her supernatural and natural life; 
so that when it turned wearily from self to what lay outside, it 
was not even capable, as before, of making that supreme effort of 
cessation of effort which was necessary to its peace. It seemed 
to her that she was self-poised in emptiness, and could neither 
touch heaven or earth—crucified so high that she could not rest 
on earth, so low that she could not reach to heaven. 

She came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being 
lighted in her sitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of 
them from the garden with no sense of a welcoming brightness. 
She passed from the garden into the door of the hall which was 
still dark, as the fire had nearly burned itself out. As she 
entered the door opposite opened, and once more she saw the 
silhouette of a man’s figure against the lighted passage be- 


182 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


yond; and again she stopped frightened, and whispered 
“Anthony.” 

There was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was 
dark again; and then she heard Hubert’s voice say her name; 
and felt herself wrapped once more in his arms. For a moment 
she clung to him with furious longing. Ah! this is a tangible 
thing, she felt, this clasp; the faint cleanly smell of his rough 
frieze dress refreshed her like wine, and she kissed his sleeve 
passionately. And the wide gulf between them yawned again; 
and her spirit sickened at the sight of it. 

“Oh! Hubert, Hubert!” she said. 

She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place 
and set down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, 
so that the flames began to leap again, showing his strong hands 
and keen clear-cut face; then he turned on his knees, seized her 
two hands in his own, and lifted them to his lips; then laid them 
down again on her knee, still holding them; and so remained. 

“Oh! Isabel,” he said, “why did you not write?” 

She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice. 

“Tt is all over,’ he went on in a moment, “‘with the expedition. 
The Queen’s Grace has finally refused us leave to go—and I 
have come back to you, Isabel.” 

How strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping firelight! 
how real! and she was hesitating between this warm human reality 
and the chilly possibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands 
tightened instinctively within his, and then relaxed. 

“T have been so wretched,” she said piteously. 

‘“‘Ah! my dear,” and he threw an arm round her neck and drew 
her face down to his, “but that is over now.” She sat back again; 
and then an access of purpose poured into her and braced her 
will to an effort. 

“No, no,” she began, “I must tell you. I was afraid to write. 
Hubert, I must wait a little longer. I—I do not know what I 
believe.” 

He looked at her, puzzled. 

“What do you mean, dearest?” 

“IT have been so much puzzled lately—thinking so much—and 
—and—I am sorry you have become a Protestant. It makes all 
so hard.” 

“My dear, this is—I do not understand.” 

“T have been thinking,’ went on Isabel bravely, “whether per- 
haps the Catholic Church is not right after all.” 


A COUNTER-MARCH 183 


Hubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into 
the shadow of the interior of the high chair, and looked up at 
him, terrified. His cheek twitched a little. 

“Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith 
is. It is not true; I have been through it all.” 

He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. 
Then he suddenly dropped on his knees himself. 

“My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I 
quite understand. It is what I too ” and then he stopped. 

“I know, I know,” she cried piteously. “It is just what I 
have feared so terribly—that—that our love has been blinding us 
both. And yet, what are we to do, what are we to do? Oh! 
God—Hubert, help me.” 

Then he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her 
hands, delicately stroking one of them now and again, and 
playing with her fingers. She watched his curly head in the fire- 
light as he talked, and his keen face as he looked up. 

“Tt is all plain to me,” he said, caressingly. ‘You have been 
living here with my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been 
talking and telling you all about the Catholic religion, and making 
it seem all true and good. And you, my dear child, have been 
thinking of me sometimes, and loving me a little, is it not so? and 
longing that religion should not separate us; and so you began 
to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and at last you 
have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet self that 
believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have 
known so long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests 
and nuns; and it is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it 
is only a lovely tale; and you must not spoil all for the sake of 
a tale. And I have been gradually ied to the light; it was 
your—” and his voice faltered—‘‘your prayers that helped me 
to it. I have longed to understand what it was that made you 
so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your own simple 
pure religion; and—and—it is so much more sensible, so much 
more likely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in 
the Bible you see; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And 
so, my dear love, I have come to believe it too; and you must 
put all these fancies out of your head, these dreams; though I 
love you, I love you,” and he kissed her hand again, “for wishing 
to believe them for my sake—and—and we will be married before 
Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but it shall be 
a true one.” 





184 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting 
thought that she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become 
incarnate in her lover and was speaking through his lips. And 
yet in its very incarnation, it seemed to reveal its weakness rather 
than its strength. As a dark suggestion the thought was mighty; 
embodied in actual language it seemed to shrink a little. But 
then, on the other hand and so the interior conflict began to 
rage again. 

She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her 
back into the chair. 

‘“‘No, my dearest, yousshall be a prisoner until you give your 
parole.” 

Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It 
seemed as if the raging strife of thoughts deafened and para- 
lysed her. 

“Now, Isabel,” said Hubert. 

“T cannot, I cannot,” she cried desperately, ‘you must give me 
time. It is too sudden, your returning like this. You must give 
me time. I do not know what I believe. Oh, dear God, help me.” 

“Tsabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it 
was all to be so happy, when I came in through the garden just 
now. My mother will hardly speak to me; and I came to you, 
Isabel, as I always did; I felt so sure you would be good to me; 
and tell me that you would always love me, now that I had 
given up my religion for love of you. And now ” and Hubert’s 
voice ended in a sob. 

Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. 
Hubert heard it, and caught at her hands again as he knelt. 

“Isabel, promise, promise.” 

Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; 
she made a determined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and 
stood opposite her. 

“You must not ask me,” she said, bravely. ‘It would be 
wicked to decide yet. I cannot see anything clearly. I do not 
know what I believe, nor where I stand. You must give me 
time.” 

There was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow 
that she could not tell what he was thinking. He was standing 
perfectly still. 

“Then that is all the answer you will give me?” he said, in a 
perfectly even voice. 

Isabel bowed her head. 








A COUNTER-MARCH 185 


“Then—then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris,” and he 
bowed to her, caught up his cap and went out. 

She could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath 
to cry out after him as the door closed; but she heard his step 
on the stone pavement outside, the crunch of the gravel, and he 
was gone. Then she went and leaned her head against the curved 
mantelshelf and stared into the logs that his hands had piled 
together. 

This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of 
all her aspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by 
bringing love into their life, and then when they caught at it 
and thanked him for it, it was whisked away again, and left their 
hands empty. Was this the Father of Love in whom she had 
been taught to believe, who treated His children like this? And 
so the bitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in her heart 
that she was powerless; that she could not go to the door and call 
Hubert and promise what he asked. A great Force had laid hold 
of her, it might be benevolent or not—at this moment she 
thought not—but it was irresistible; and she must bow her head 
and obey. 

And even as she thought that, the door opened again, and 
there was Hubert. He came in two quick steps across the room 
to her, and then stopped suddenly. 

“Mistress Isabel,’’ he asked, ‘“‘can you forgive me? I was a 
brute just now. I do not ask for your promise. I leave it all 
in your hands. Do with me what you will. But—but, if you 
could tell me how long you think it will be before you know as 

He had touched the right note. Isabel’s heart gave a leap 
of sorrow and sympathy. “Oh, Hubert,” she said brokenly, “I 
am so sorry; but I promise I will tell you—by Easter?” and her 
tone was interrogative. 

“Ves, yes,” said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she 
saw strange lines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his 
eyes large and brilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew 
together, and he took her in his arms strongly and passionately. 





There was a scene that night between the mother and son. 
Mistress Margaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; 
and Lady Maxwell and Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas’ old 
study that would soon be arranged for Hubert now that he had 
returned for good. They had been very silent during the meal, 
while the servants were in the room, talking only of little village 


186 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of the proposed 
expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it was 
generally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended 
the English ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw 
Spain’s attention off herself by setting up complications between 
that country and France; and when she had succeeded in this by 
managing to get the French squadron safe at Terceira, she then 
withdrew her permission to Drae and Ffawkins, and thus escaped 
from the quarrel altogether. Lut it was a poor makeshift for 
conversation. . 

When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently 
Hubert looked across the table between the silver branched 
candlesticks. 

“Mother,” he said, “of course I know what you are thinking. 
But I cannot consent to go through all the arguments; I am 
weary of them. Neither will I see Mr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuck- 
field or here. I am satisfied with my position.” 

“My son,” said Lady Maxwell with dignity, “I do not think I 
have spoken that priest’s name; or indeed any.” 

“Well,” said Hubert, impatiently, “at any rate I will not see 
him. But I wish to say a few words about this house. We must 
have our positions clear. My father left to your use, did he not, 
the whole of the cloister-wing? JI am delighted, dear mother, 
that he did so. You will be happy there, I know; and of course 
I need not say that I hope you will keep your old room overhead 
as well; and, indeed, use the whole house as you have always 
done. I shall be grateful if you will superintend it all, as before— 
at least, until a new mistress comes.” 

“Thank you, my son.” 

“T will speak of that in a moment,” he went on, looking steadily 
at the table-cloth; “but there was a word I wished to say first. 
I am now a loyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion 
as in all else. And—and I fear I cannot continue to entertain 
seminary priests as my father used to do. My—my conscience 
will not allow that. But of course, mother, I need not say that 
you are at perfect liberty to do what you will in the cloister-wing: 
I shall ask no questions; and I shall set no traps or spies. But I 
must ask that the priests do not come into this part of the house, 
nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn in the 
cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise.” 

“You need not fear, Hubert,” said his mother, “I will not 
embarrass you. You shall be in no danger.” 


A COUNTER-MARCH 187 


“T think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually 
thought a coward.” 

Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver 
knife. 

“However,” Hubert went on, “I thought it best to say that. 
The chapel, you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; 
and—and I do not think I am treating you hardly.” 

“And is your brother James not to come?” asked his 
mother. 

“T have thought much over that,” said Hubert; “and although 
it is hard to say it, I think he had better not come to my part 
of the house—at least not when I am here; I must know nothing 
of it. You must do what you think well when I am away, about 
him and others too. It is very difficult for me, mother; please do 
not add to the difficulty.” 

“You need not fear,” said Lady Maxwell steadily; “you shall 
not be troubled with any Catholics besides ourselves.” 

“Then that is arranged,” said the lad. “And now there is a 
word more. What have you been doing to Isabel?” And he 
looked sharply across the table. His mother’s eyes met his 
fearlessly. 

“YT do not understand you,” she said. 

“Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her 
continually.” 

“T have told you, my son, that I do not know.” 

“Why,” burst out Hubert, “‘she is half a Catholic.” 

“Thank God,” said his mother. 

“Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank 
for it?” 

“T would that you could thank Him too.” 

Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust. 

‘““Ah! yes,” he said scornfully, “I knew it; Non nobis Domine, 
and the rest.” 

“Hubert,” said Lady Maxwell, “I do not think you mean to 
insult me in this house; but either that is an insult, or else I 
misunderstood you wholly, and must ask your pardon for it.” 

“Well,” he said, in a harsh voice, “I will make myself plain. 
I believe that it is through the influence of you and Aunt 
Margaret that this has been brought about.” 

At the moment he spoke the door opened. 

“Come in, Margaret,” said his sister, ‘this concerns you.” 

The old nun came across to Hubert with her anxious sweet 


188 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


face; and put her old hand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he 
sat and wrenched at a nut between his fingers. 

“Hubert, dear boy,” she said, ‘what is all this? Will you 
tell me?” 

Hubert rose, a little ashamed of himself, and went to the door 
and closed it; and then drew out a chair for his aunt, and put a 
wine-glass for her. 

“Sit down, aunt,” he said, and pushed the decanter towards her. 

“T have just left Isabel, ” she said, ‘‘she is very unhappy about 
something. You saw her this evening, dear lad?” 

“Ves,” said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and 
taking up another nut, “and it is of that that I have been speak- 
ing. Who has made her unhappy?” 

“T had hoped you would tell us that,” said Mistress Margaret; 
“T came up to ask you.” 

“My son has done us—me—the honour——” began Lady 
Maxwell; but Hubert broke in: 

“T left Isabel here last Christmas happy and a Protestant. I 
have come back here now to find her unhappy and half a Catholic, 
if not more—and m 

“Oh! are you sure?” asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. 
“Thank God, if it be so!” 

“Sure?” said Hubert, “why she will not marry me; at least 
not yet.” 

“Oh, poor lad,” she said tenderly, “‘to have lost both God and 
Isabel.” 

Hubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun’s eyes were 
steady and serene. 

“Poor lad!” she said again. 

Hubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer. 

‘“‘As far as I am concerned,” he said, ‘‘I can understand your 
not caring, but I am astonished at this response of yours to her 
father’s confidence!” 

Lady Maxwell grew white to the lips. 

“T have told you,” she began—“but you do not seem to believe 
it—that I have had nothing to do, so far as I know, with her 
conversion, which’”—and she raised her voice bravely—‘I pray 
God to accomplish. She has, of course, asked me questions now 
and then; and I have answered them—that is all.” 

“And I,” said Mistress Margaret, “plead guilty to the same 
charge, and to no other. You are not yourself, dear boy, at 

present; and indeed I do not wonder at it; and I pray God to 





A COUNTER-MARCH 189 


help you; but you are not yourself, or you would not speak like 
this to your mother.” 

Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and 
the ruffle round his wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his 
fingers on the table. 

“T am only a plain Protestant now,” he said bitterly, “and I 
have been with Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic 
ways; but 3 

“Stay, Hubert,” said his mother, “do not finish that. You will 
be sorry for it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret.” And she 
moved towards the door; her son went quickly past and opened it. 

“Nay, nay,” said the nun. “Do you be going, Mary. Let me 
stay with the lad, and we will come to you presently.” Lady 
Maxwell bowed her head and passed out, and Hubert closed the 
door. 

Mistress Margaret looked down on the table. 

“You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it.” 

Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her. 

“It is no use, it is no use,” he burst out, and his voice was 
broken with emotion, “you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what 
have you done with my Isabel?”’ He put out his hand and seized 
her arm. “Give her back to me, Aunt Margaret; give her back 
to me.” 

He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there 
was a sob or two. 

“Sit up and be a man, Hubert,” broke in Mistress Margaret’s 
voice, clear and cool. 

He looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was 
looking at him, smiling tenderly. 

“And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, 
dear boy.” 

He poured it out, bewildered at her self-control. 

“For a man that has been round the world,” she said, ‘‘you are 
but a foolish child.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel?” she 
asked. 

“What do you mean?” he repeated. 

“Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your 
mother and me happy again, and marry Isabel, and save your 
own soul.” } 

“Aunt Margaret,” he cried, “it is impossible. I have truly 





190 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


lost my faith in the Catholic religion; and—and—you would not 
have me a hypocrite.” 

“Ah! ah!” said the nun, “you cannot tell yet. Please God it 
may come back. Oh! dear boy, in your heart you know it 
is true.” 

“Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true.” 

“No, no, no,” she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and 
she stretched a tremulous hand. 

“Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have 
been doubting; but I kept on just because it seemed to me the 
best religion; and—and I would not be driven out of it by her 
Grace’s laws against my will, like a dog stoned from his kennel.”’ 

“But you are only a lad still,” she said piteously. He laughed 
a little. 

“But I have had the gift of reason and discretion nearly twenty 
years, a priest would tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could 
not be such a—a cur—as to come back without believing. I 
could never look Isabel in the eyes again.” 

“Well, well,” said the old lady, “let us wait and see. Do you 
intend to be here now for a while?” 

“Not while Isabel is like this,” he said. “I could not. I must 
go away for a while, and then come back and ask her again.” 

“When will she decide?” 

“She told me by next Easter,” said Hubert. “Oh, Aunt 
Margaret, pray for us both.” 

The light began to glimmer again in her eyes. 

“There, dear boy,” she said, “‘you see you believe in prayer 
still.” 

“But, aunt,” said Hubert, “why should I not? Protestants 
pray.” 

“Well, well,” said the old nun again. ‘‘Now you must come 
to your mother; and—and be good to her.” 


CHAPTER V 
THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 


THE effect on Anthony of Mr. Buxton’s conversation was very 
considerable. He had managed to keep his temper very well 
during the actual interview; but he broke out alone afterwards, 
at first with an angry contempt. The absurd arrogance of the 
man made him furious—-the arrogance that had puffed away 
England and its ambitions and its vigour—palpable evidences of 
life and reality, and further of God’s blessing—in favour of a 
miserable Latin nation which had the presumption to claim the 
possession of Peter’s Chair and of the person of the Vicar of 
Christ! Test it, said the young man to himself, by the ancient 
Fathers and Councils that Dr. Jewel quoted so learnedly, and 
the preposterous claim crumbled to dust. Test it, yet again, by 
the finger of Providence; and God Himself proclaimed that the 
pretensions of the spiritual kingdom, of which the prisoner in the 
cell had bragged, are but a blasphemous fable. And Anthony 
reminded himself of the events of the previous year. 

‘Three great assaults had been made by the Papists to win 
back England to the old Religion. Dr. William Allen, the founder 
of Douai College, had already for the last seven or eight years 
been pouring seminary priests into England, and over a hundred 
and twenty were at work among their countrymen, preparing the 
grand attack. This was made in three quarters at once. 

In Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with 
a bitter contempt, of the Count d’Aubigny, Esmé Stuart, who 
was supposed to be an emissary of the Jesuits; how he had plotted 
with ecclesiastics and nobles, and professed Protestantism to 
further his ends; and of all the stories of his duplicity and evil- 
living, told round the guard-room fire. 

In Ireland the attempt was little else than ludicrous. Anthony 
laughed fiercely to himself as he pictured the landing of the 
treacherous fools at Dingle, of Sir James FitzMaurice and his 
lady, very wretched and giddy after their voyage, and the bare- 
footed friars, and Dr. Sanders, and the banner so solemnly con- 

191 


192 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


secrated; and of the sands of Smerwick, when all was over a year 
later, and the six hundred bodies, men and women who had 
preferred Mr. Buxton’s spiritual kingdom to Elizabeth’s kindly 
rule, stripped and laid out in rows, like dead game, for Lord Grey 
de Wilton to reckon them by. 

But his heart sank a little as he remembered the third method 
of attack, and of the coming of the Jesuits. By last July all 
London knew that they were here, and men’s hearts were shaken 
with apprehension. ‘They reminded one another of the April 
earthquake that had tolled the great Westminster bell, and thrown 
down stones from the churches. One of the Lambeth guards, a 
native of Blunsdon, in Wiltshire, had told Anthony himself that 
a pack of hell-hounds had been heard there, in full cry after a 
ghostly quarry. Phantom ships had been seen from Bodmin 
attacking a phantom castle that rode over the waves of the 
Cornish coast. An old woman of Blasedon had given birth to a 
huge-headed monster with the mouth of a mouse, eight legs, and 
a tail; and, worse than all, it was whispered in the Somersetshire 
inns that three companies of black-robed men, sixty in number, 
had been seen, coming and going overhead in the gloom. These 
two strange emissaries, Fathers Persons and Campion—how they 
appealed to the imagination, lurking under a hundred disguises, 
now of servants, now of gentlemen of means and position! It was 
known that they were still in England, going about doing good, 
their friends said who knew them; stirring up the people, their 
enemies said who were searching for them. Anthony had seen 
with his own eyes some of the papers connected with their pres- 
ence—that containing a statement of their objects in coming, 
namely, that they were spiritual not political agents, seeking 
recruits for Christ and for none else; Campion’s “Challenge and 
Brag,” offering to meet any English Divine on equal terms in a 
public disputation; besides one or two of the controversial 
pamphlets, purporting to be printed at Douai, but really em- 
anating from a private printing-press in England, as the 
Government experts had discovered from an examination of the 
watermarks of the paper employed. 

Yet as the weeks went by, and his first resentment cooled, 
Mr. Buxton’s arguments more and more sank home, for they 
had touched the very point where Anthony had reckoned that his 
own strength lay. He had never before heard Nationalism and 
Catholicism placed in such flat antithesis. In fact, he had never 
before really heard the statement of the Catholic position; and 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 193 


his fierce contempt gradually melted into respect. Both theories 
had a concrete air of reality about them; his own imagined itself 
under the symbols of England’s power; the National Church 
appealed to him so far as it represented the spiritual side of the 
English people; and Mr. Buxton’s conception appealed to him 
from its very audacity. This great spiritual kingdom, striding on 
its way, trampling down the barriers of temperament and nation- 
ality, disregarding all earthly limitations and artificial restraints, 
imperiously dominating the world in spite of the world’s struggles 
and resentment—this, after all, as he thought over it, was—well— 
was a new aspect of affairs. The coming of the Jesuits, too, 
emphasised the appeal: here were two men, as the world itself 
confessed, of exceptional ability—-for Campion had been a famous 
Oxford orator, and Persons a Fellow of Balliol—choosing, under 
a free-will obedience, first a life of exile, and then one of daily 
peril and apprehension, the very thought of which burdened the 
imagination with horror; hunted like vermin, sleeping and faring 
hard, their very names detested by the majority of their country- 
men, with the shadow of the gallows moving with them, and the 
reek of the hangman’s cauldron continually in their nostrils—and 
for what? For Mr. Buxton’s spiritual kingdom! Well, Anthony 
thought to himself as the weeks went by and his new thoughts 
sank deeper, if it is all a superstitious dream, at least it is a 
noble one! 

What, too, was the answer, he asked himself, that England gave 
to Father Campion’s challenge, and the defence that the Govern- 
ment was preparing against the spiritual weapons of the Jesuits? 
New prisons at Framingham and Battersea; new penalties enacted 
by Parliament; and, above all, the unanswerable argument of the 
rack, and the gallows finally to close the discussion. And what of 
the army that was being set in array against the priests, and that 
was even now beginning to scour the country round Berkshire, 
Oxfordshire, and London? Anthony had to confess to himself 
that they were queer allies for the servants of Christ; for traitors, 
liars, and informers were among the most trusted Government 
agents. 

In short, as the spring drew on, Anthony was not wholly happy. 
Again and again in his own room he studied a little manuscript 
translation of Father Campion’s ‘‘Ten Reasons,” that had been 
taken from a popish prisoner, and that a friend had given him; 
and as he read its exultant rhetoric, he wondered whether the 
writer was indeed as insincere and treacherous as Mr. Scot de 


194 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


clared. There seemed in the paper a reckless outspokenness, 
calculated rather to irritate than deceive. 

“T turn to the Sacraments,” he read, “none, none, not two, not 
one, O holy Christ, have they left. Their very bread is poison. 
Their baptism, though it be true, yet in their judgment is nothing. 
It is not the saving water! It is not the channel of Grace! It 
brings not Christ’s merits to us! It is but a sign of salvation!” 
And again the writer cried to Elizabeth to return to the ancient 
Religion, and to be in truth what she was in name, the Defender 
of the Faith. 

“Kings shall be thy nursing fathers,’ thus Isaiah sang, ‘and 
Queens thy nursing mothers.’ Listen, Elizabeth, most Mighty 
Queen! To thee the great Prophet sings! He teaches thee thy 
part. Join then thyself to these princes! ...O Elizabeth, a 
day, a day shall come that shall show thee clearly which have 
loved thee the better, the Society of JEsus or Luther’s brood!” 

What arrogance, thought Anthony to himself, and what assur- 
ance too! 

Meanwhile in the outer world things were not reassuring to the 
friends of the Government: it was true that half a dozen priests 
had been captured and examined by torture, and that Sir George 
Peckham himself, who was known to have harboured Campion, 
had been committed to the Marshalsea; but yet the Jesuits’ influ- 
ence was steadily on the increase. More and more severe penalties 
had been lately enacted; it was now declared to be high treason 
to reconcile or be reconciled to the Church of Rome; overwhelm- 
ing losses in fortune as well as liberty were threatened against 
all who said or heard Mass or refused to attend the services of 
the Establishment; but, as was discovered from papers that fell 
from time to time into the hands of the Government agents, the 
only answer of the priests was to inveigh more strenuously against 
even occasional conformity, declaring it to be the mortal sin of 
schism, if not of apostasy, to put in an appearance under any 
circumstances, except those of actual physical compulsion, at the 
worship in the parish churches. Worse than all, too, was the 
fact that this severe gospel began to prevail; recusancy was 
reported to be on the increase in all parts of the country; and 
many of the old aristocracy began to return to the faith of their 
fathers: Lords Arundel, Oxford, Vaux, Henry Howard, and Sir 
Francis Southwell were all beginning to fall under the suspicion 
of the shrewdest Government spies. 

The excitement at Lambeth ran higher day by day as the sum- 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 195 


mer drew on; the net was being gradually contracted in the home 
counties; spies were reported to be everywhere, in inns, in the 
servants’ quarters of gentlemen’s houses, lounging at cross roads 
and on village greens. Campion’s name was in every mouth. 
Now they were on his footsteps, it was said; now he was taken; 
mow he was gone back to France; now he was in London; now 
in Lancashire; and each rumour in turn corrected its predecessor. 

Anthony shared to the full in the excitement; the figure of the 
quarry, after which so many hawks were abroad, appealed to his 
imagination. He dreamed of him at night, once as a crafty- 
looking man with narrow eyes and stooping shoulders, that 
skulked and ran from shadow to shadow across a moonlit country; 
once as a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman riding down a 
crowded street; and several times as a kind of double of Mr. 
Stewart, whom he had never forgotten, since he had watched him 
in the little room of Maxwell Hall, gallant and alert among his 
enemies. 

At last one day in July, as it drew on towards evening, and 
as Anthony was looking over the stable-accounts in his little 
office beyond the Presence Chamber, a buzz of talk and footsteps 
broke out in the court below; and a moment later the Arch- 
bishop’s body-servant ran in to say that his Grace wished to see 
Mr. Norris at once in the gallery that opened out of the 
guard-room. 

“And I think it is about the Jesuits, sir,’ added the man, 
evidently excited. 

Anthony ran down at once and found his master pacing up and 
down, with a courier waiting near the steps at the lower end that 
led to Chichele’s tower. The Archbishop stopped by a window, 
emblazoned with Cardinal Pole’s emblem, and beckoned to him. 

“See here, Master Norris,” he said, “I have received news that 
Campion is at last taken: it may well be false, as so often before; 
but take horse, if you please, and ride into the city and find the 
truth for me. I will not send a groom; they believe the maddest 
tales. You are at liberty?” he added courteously. 

“Yes, your Grace, I will ride immediately.” 

As he rode down the river-bank towards London Bridge ten 
minutes later, he could not help feeling some dismay as well as 
excitement at the news he was to verify. And yet what other 
end was possible? But what a doom for the brilliant Oxford 
orator, even though he had counted the cost! 

Streams of excited people were pouring across the bridge into 


196 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the city; Campion’s name was on every tongue; and Anthony, 
as he passed under the high gate, noticed a man point up at the 
grim spiked heads above it, and laugh to his companion. ‘There 
seemed little doubt, from the unanimity of those whom he ques- 
tioned, that the rumour was true; and some even said that the 
Jesuit was actually passing down Cheapside on his way to 
the Tower. When at last Anthony came to the thoroughfare the 
crowd was as dense as for a royal progress. He checked his 
horse at the door of an inn-yard, and asked an ostler that stood 
there what it was all about. 

“Tt is Campion, the Jesuit, sir,” said the man. ‘He has been 
taken at Lyford, and is passing here presently.” 

The man had hardly finished speaking when a yell came from 
the end of the street, and groans and hoots ran down the crowd. 
Anthony turned in his saddle, and saw a great stir and move- 
ment, and then horses’ and men’s heads moving slowly down over 
the seething surface of the crowd, as if swimming in a rough sea. 
He could make little out, as the company came towards him, 
but the faces of the officers and pursuivants who rode in the 
front rank, four or five abreast; then followed the faces of three 
or four others, also riding between guards, and Anthony looked 
eagerly at them; but they were simple faces enough, a little pale 
and quiet; one was like a farmer’s, ruddy and bearded;—surely 
Campion could not be among those! Then more and more, 
riding two and two, with a couple of armed guards with each pair; 
some looked like countrymen or servants, some like gentlemen, 
and one or two might be priests; but the crowd seemed to pay 
them no attention beyond a glance or two. Ah! what was this 
coming behind? 

There was a space behind the last row of guards, and then 
came a separate troop riding all together, of half a dozen men 
at least, and one in the centre, with something white in his hat. 
The ferment round this group was tremendous; men were leaping 
up and yelling, like hounds round a carted stag; clubs shot up 
menacingly, and a storm of ceaseless execration raged outside 
the compact square of guards who sat alert and ready to beat 
off an attack. Once a horse kicked fiercely as a man sprang to 
his hind-quarters, and there was a scream of pain and a burst of 
laughing. 

Anthony sat trembling with excitement as the first group had 
passed, and this second began to come opposite the entrance 
where he sat. This then was the man! 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 197 


The rider in the centre sat his horse somewhat stiffly, and 
Anthony saw that his elbows were bound behind his back, and 
his hands in front; the reins were drawn over his horse’s head 
and a pursuivant held them on either side. The man was dressed 
as a layman, in a plumed hat and a buff jerkin, such as soldiers 
or plain country-gentlemen might use; and in the hat was a great 
paper with an inscription. Anthony spelt it out. : 

“Campion, the Seditious Jesuit.” 

Then he looked at the man’s face. 

It was a comely refined face, a little pale but perfectly serene: 
his pointed dark brown beard and moustache were carefully 
trimmed; and his large passionate eyes looked cheerfully about 
him. Anthony stared at him, wholly fascinated; for above the 
romance that hung about the hunted priest and the glamour of the 
dreaded Society which he represented, there was a chivalrous 
fearless look in his face that drew the heart of the young man 
almost irresistibly. At least he did not look like the skulking 
knave at whom all the world was sneering, and of whom Anthony 
had dreamt so vividly a few nights before. 

The storm of execration from the faces below, and the faces 
crowding at the windows, seemed to affect him not at all; and he 
looked from side to side as if they were cheering him rather than 
crying against him. Once his eyes met Anthony’s and rested on 
them for a moment; and a strange thrill ran through him and he 
shivered sharply. 

And yet he felt, too, a distinct and irresistible movement of 
attraction towards this felon who was riding towards his agony 
and passion; and he was conscious at the same time of that 
curious touch of wonder that he had felt years before towards 
the man whipped at the cart’s tail, as to whether the solitary 
criminal were not in the right, and the clamorous accusers in the 
wrong. Campion in a moment had passed on and turned his head. 

In that moment, too, Anthony caught a sudden clear instan- 
taneous impression of a group of faces in the window opposite. 
There were a couple of men in front, stout city personages no 
doubt, with crimson faces and open mouths cursing the traitorous 
Papist and the crafty vagrant fox trapped at last; but between 
them, looking over their shoulders, was a woman’s face in which 
Anthony saw the most intense struggle of emotions. The face 
was quite white, the lips parted, the eyes straining, and sorrow 
and compassion were in every line, as she watched the cheerful 
priest among his warders; and yet there rested on it, too, a 


198 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


strange light as of triumph. It was the face of one who sees 
victory even at the hour of supremest failure. In an instant more 
the face had withdrawn itself into the darkness of the room. 

When the crowds had surged down the street in the direction 
of the Tower, yelling in derision as Campion saluted the lately 
defaced Cheapside Cross, Anthony guided his horse out through 
the dispersing groups, realising as he did so, with a touch of 
astonishment at the coincidence, that he had been standing almost 
immediately under the window whence he and Isabel had leaned 
out so many years before. 


The sun was going down behind the Abbey as he rode up 
towards Lambeth, and the sky above and the river beneath were 
as molten gold. The Abbey itself, with Westminster Hall and 
the Houses of Parliament below, stood up like mystical palaces 
against the sunset; and it seemed to Anthony as he rode, as if 
God Himself were illustrating in glorious illumination the closing 
pages of that human life of which a glimpse had opened to him 
in Cheapside. It did not appear to him as it had done in the 
days of his boyish love as if heaven and earth were a stage for 
himself to walk and pose upon; but he felt intensely now the 
dominating power of the personality of the priest; and that he 
himself was no more than a spectator of this act of a tragedy of 
which the priest was both hero and victim, and for which this 
evening glory formed so radiant a scene. The old intellectual 
arguments against the cause that the priest represented for the 
moment were drowned in this flood of splendour. When he 
arrived at Lambeth and had reached the Archbishop’s presence, 
he told him the news briefly, and went to his room full of thought 
and perplexity. 

In a few days the story of Campion’s arrest was known far 
and wide. It had been made possible by the folly of one Catholic 
and the treachery of another; and when Anthony heard it, he 
was stirred still more by the contrast between the Jesuit and his 
pursuers. The priest had returned to the moated grange at 
Lyford, after having already paid as long a visit there as was 
prudent, owing to the solicitations of a number of gentlemen who 
had ridden after him and his companion, and who wished to 
hear his eloquence. He had returned there again, said mass on 
the Sunday morning, and preached afterwards, from a chair 
set before the altar, a sermon on the tears of the Saviour over 
apostate Jerusalem. But a false disciple had been present who 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 199 


had come in search of one Payne; and this man, known afterwards 
by the Catholics as Judas Eliot or Eliot Iscariot, had gathered 
a number of constables and placed them about the manor-house; 
and before the sermon was over he went out quickly from the 
table of the Lord, the house was immediately surrounded, and 
the alarm was raised by a watcher placed in one of the turrets 
after Eliot’s suspicious departure. The three priests present, 
Campion and two others, were hurried into a hiding-hole over 
the stairs. The officers entered, searched, and found nothing; 
and were actually retiring, when Eliot succeeded in persuading 
them to try again; they searched again till dark, and still found 
nothing. Mrs. Yate encouraged them to stay the night in the 
house, and entertained them with ale; and then when all was 
quiet, insisted on hearing some parting words from her eloquent 
guest. He came out into the room where she had chosen to spend 
the night until the officers were gone; and the rest of the Catho- 
lics, some Brigittine nuns and others, met there through private 
passages and listened to him for the last time. As the company 
was dispersing one of the priests stumbled and fell, making a 
noise that roused the sentry outside. Again the house was 
searched, and again with no success. In despair they were leav- 
ing it, when Jenkins, Eliot’s companion, who was coming down- 
stairs with a servant of the house, beat with his stick on the wall, 
saying that they had not searched there. It was noticed that 
the servant showed signs of agitation; and men were fetched to 
the spot; the wall was beaten in and the three priests were found 
together, having mutually shriven one another, and made them- 
selves ready for death. 

Campion was taken out and sent first to the Sheriff of Berk- 
shire, and then on towards London on the following day. 


The summer days went by, and every day brought its fresh 
rumour about Campion. Sir Owen Hopton, Governor of the 
Tower, who at first had committed his prisoner to Little-Ease, 
now began to treat him with more honour; he talked, too, mysteri- 
ously, of secret interviews and promises and understandings; and 
gradually it began to get about that Campion was yielding to 
kindness; that he had seen the Queen; that he was to recant at 
Paul’s Cross; and even that he was to have the See of Canterbury. 
This last rumour caused great indignation at Lambeth, and 
Anthony was more pressed than ever to get what authentic news 
‘he could of the Jesuit. Then at the beginning of August came 


200 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


a burst of new tales; he had been racked, it was said, and had 
given up a number of names; and as the month went by more and 
more details, authentic and otherwise, were published. Those 
favourably inclined to the Catholics were divided in opinion; 
some feared that he had indeed yielded to an excess of agony; 
others, and these proved to be in the right when the truth came 
‘out, that he had only given up names which were already known 
to the authorities; though even for this he asked public pardon 
on the scaffold. 

Towards the end of August the Archbishop again sent expressly 
for Anthony and bade him accompany his chaplain on the follow- 
ing day to the Tower, to be present at the public disputation that 
was to take place between English divines and the Jesuit. 

‘“‘Now he will have the chance he craved for,” said Grindal. 
‘‘He hath bragged that he would meet any and all in dispute, and 
now the Queen’s clemency hath granted it him.” 

On the following day in the early morning sunshine the minister 
and Anthony rode down together to the Tower, where they 
atrived a few minutes before eight o’clock, and were passed 
through up the stairs into St. John’s chapel to the seats reserved 
for them. 

It was indeed true that the authorities had determined to give 
Campion his chance, but they had also determined to make it 
as small as possible. He was not even told that the discussion 
was to take place until the morning of its occasion, and he was 
allowed no opportunity for developing his own theological posi- 
tion; the entire conduct of the debate was in the hands of his 
adversaries; he might only parry, seldom riposte, and never 
attack. 

When Anthony found himself in his seat he looked round the 
chapel. Almost immediately opposite him, on a raised platform 
against a pillar, stood two high seats occupied by Deans Nowell 
and Day, who were to conduct the disputation, and who were now 
talking with their heads together while a secretary was arranging 
a great heap of books on the table before them. On either side, 
east and west, stretched chairs for the divines that were to support 
them in debate, should they need it; and the platform on which 
Anthony himself had a chair was filled with a crowd of clergy 
and courtiers laughing and chatting together. A little table, also 
heaped with books, with seats for the notaries, stood in the centre 
of the nave, and not far from it were a number of little wooden 
stools which the prisoners were to occupy. Plainly they were te 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 201 


be allowed no advisers and no books; even the physical support 
of table and chairs was denied to them in spite of their weary 
racked bodies. The chapel, bright with the morning sunlight that 
streamed in through the east windows of the bare Norman sanc- 
tuary, hummed with the talk and laughter of those who had come 
to see the priest-baiting and the vindication of the Protestant 
Religion; though, as Anthony looked round, he saw here and 
there an anxious or a downcast face of some unknown friend of 
the Papists. 

He himself was far from easy in his mind. He had been study- 
ing Campion’s ‘“Ten Reasons” more earnestly than ever, and was 
amazed to find that the very authorities to which Dr. Jewel 
deferred, namely, the Scriptures interpreted by Fathers and 
Councils and illustrated by History, were exactly Campion’s 
authorities, too; and that the Jesuit’s appeal to them was no less 
confident than the Protestant’s. That fact had, of course, sug- 
gested the thought that if there were no further living authority 
in existence to decide between these two scholars, Christendom 
was in a poor position. When doctors differed, where was the 
layman to turn? To his own private judgment, said the Protes- 
tant. But then Campion’s private judgment led him to submit 
to the Catholic claim! This then at present weighed heavily on 
Anthony’s mind. Was there or was there not an authority on 
earth capable of declaring to him the Revelation of God? For 
the first time he was beginning to feel a logical and spiritual 
necessity for an infallible external Judge in matters of faith; and 
that the Catholic Church was the only system that professed to 
supply it. The question of the existence of such an authority 
was, with the doctrine of justification, one of those subjects con- 
tinually in men’s minds and conversations, and to Anthony, unlike 
others, it appeared more fundamental even than its companion. 
All else seemed secondary. Indulgences, the Mass, Absolution, 
the Worship of Mary and the Saints—all these must stand or fall 
on God’s authority made known to man. The one question 
for him was, Where was that authority to be certainly 
found? 

There came the ringing tramp of footsteps; the buzz of talk 
ceased and then broke out again, as the prisoners, with all eyes 
bent upon them, surrounded by a strong guard of pikemen, were 
seen advancing up the chapel from the north-west door towards 
the stools set ready for them. Anthony had no eyes but for 
Campion who limped in front, supported on either side by a 


202 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


warder. He could scarcely believe at first that this was the same 
priest who had ridden so bravely down Cheapside. Now he was 
bent, and walked like an old broken man; his face was deathly 
pale, with shadows and lines about his eyes, and his head trembled 
a little. There were one or two exclamations of pity, for all 
knew what had caused the change; and Anthony heard an under- 
tone moan of sorrow and anger from some one in a seat behind 
him. 

The prisoners sat down; and the guards went to their places. 
Campion took his seat in front, and turned immediately from side 
to side, running his dark eyes along the faces to see where were 
his adversaries; and once more Anthony met his eyes, and thrilled 
at it. Through the pallor and pain of his face, the same chivalrous 
spirit looked out and called for homage and love, that years ago 
at Oxford had made young men, mockingly nicknamed after 
their leader, to desire his praise more passionately than anything 
on earth, and even to imitate his manners and dress and gait, for 
very loyalty and devotion. Anthony could not take his eyes off 
him; he watched the clear-cut profile of his face thrown fear- 
lessly forward, waited in tense expectation to hear him speak, 
and paid no attention to the whisperings of the chaplain beside 
him. 


Presently the debate began. It was opened by Dean Nowell 
from his high seat, who assured Father Campion of the disin- 
terested motives of himself and his reverend friends in holding 
this disputation. It was, after all, only what the priest had 
demanded; and they trusted by God’s grace that they would do 
him good and help him to see the truth. There was no unfair- 
ness, said the Dean, who seemed to think that some apology was 
needed, in taking him thus unprepared, since the subject of debate 
would be none other than Campion’s own book. The Jesuit 
looked up, nodded his head, and smiled. 

“T thank you, Mr. Dean,” he said, in his deep resonant voice, 
and there fell a dead hush as he spoke. “I thank you for desiring 
to do me good, and to take up my challenge; but I must say that 
I would I had understood of your coming, that I might have 
made myself ready.” 

Campion’s voice thrilled strangely through Anthony, as the — 
glance from his eyes had done. It was so assured, so strong and 
delicate an instrument, and so supremely at its owner’s command, 
that it was hardly less persuasive than his personality and his 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 203 


learning that made themselves apparent during the day. And 
Anthony was not alone in his impressions of the Jesuit. Lord 
Arundel afterwards attributed his conversion to Campion’s share 
in the discussions. Again and again during the day a murmur 
of applause followed some of the priest’s clean-cut speeches and 
arguments, and a murmur of disapproval the fierce thrusts and 
taunts of his opponents; and by the end of the day’s debate, so 
marked was the change of attitude of the crowd that had come 
to triumph over the Papist, and so manifest their sympathy with 
the prisoners, that it was thought advisable to exclude the public 
from the subsequent discussions. 

On this first day, all manner of subjects were touched upon, 

such as the comparative leniency of Catholic and Protestant 
governments, the position of Luther with regard to the Epistle of 
St. James, and other matters comparatively unimportant, in the 
discussion of which a great deal of time was wasted. Campion 
entreated his opponents to leave such minor questions alone, and 
to come to doctrinal matters; but they preferred to keep to 
details rather than to principles, and the priest had scarcely any 
opportunity to state his positive position at all. The only doc- 
rinal matter seriously touched upon was that of Justification by 
Faith; and texts were flung to and fro without any great result. 
“We are justified by faith,” cried one side. “Though I have all 
faith and have not charity, I am nothing,” cried the other. The 
effect on Anthony of this day’s debate arose rather from the 
victorious personality of the priest than from his arguments. 
His gaiety, too, was in strange contrast to the solemn Puritan- 
ism of his enemies. For instance, he was on the point that Coun- 
cils might err in matters of fact, but that the Scriptures could 
not. 

“As for example,” he said, his eyes twinkling out of his drawn 
face, “I am bound under pain of damnation to believe that 
Toby’s dog had a tail, because it is written, he wagged it.” 

The Deans looked sternly at him, as the audience laughed. 

“Now, now,” said one of them, “it becomes not to deal so 
triflingly with matters of weight.” 

Campion dropped his eyes, demurely, as if reproved. 

“Why, then,” he said, “if this example like you not, take 
another. I must believe that St. Paul had a cloak, because he 
willeth Timothy to bring it with him.” 

Again the crowd laughed; and Anthony laughed, too, with a 
strange sob in his throat at the gallant foolery, which, after 


204 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


all, was as much to the point as a deal that the Deans were 
saying. 

But the second day’s debate, held in Hopton’s Hall, was on 
more vital matters; and Anthony again and again found himself 
leaning forward breathlessly, as Drs. Goode and Fulke on the 
one side, and Campion on the other, respectively attacked and 
defended the Doctrine of the Visible Church; for this, for 
Anthony, was one of the crucial points of the dispute between 
Catholicism and Protestantism. Anthony believed already that 
the Church was one; and if it was visible, surely he thought 
to himself, it must be visibly one; and in that case, it is evident 
where that Church is to be found. But if it is invisible, it may 
be invisibly one, and then as far as that matter is concerned, he 
may rest in the Church of England. If not—and then he re- 
coiled from the gulf that opened. 

“Tt must be an essential mark of the Church,” said Campion, 
“and such a quality as is inseparable. It must be visible, as fire 
is hot, and water moist.” 

Goode answered that when Christ was taken and the Apostles 
fled, then at least the Church was invisible; and if then, why 
not always? 

“Tt was a Church inchoate,” answered the priest, “beginning, 
not perfect.” 

But Goode continued to insist that the true Church is known 
only to God, and therefore invisible. 

“There are many wolves within,” he said, “and many sheep 
without.” 

“T know not who is elect,” retorted Campion, “but I know who 
is a Catholic.” 

“Only the elect are of the Church,” said Goode. 

“T say that both good and evil are of the visible Church,” 
answered the other. 

“To be elect or true members of Christ is one thing,” went on 
Goode, “and to be in the visible Church is another.” 


As the talk went on, Anthony began to see where the con- 
fusion lay. The Protestants were anxious to prove that mem- 
bership in a visible body did not ensure salvation; but then 
the Catholics never claimed that it did; the question was: Did 
or did not Christ intend there to be a visible Church, member- 
ship in which should be the normal though not the infallible means 
of salvation? 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 205 


They presently got on to the @ priort point as to whether a 
visible Church would seem to be a necessity. 

“There is a perpetual commandment,” said the priest, “in 
Matthew eighteen—‘Tell the Church’; but that cannot be unless 
the Church is visible; ergo, the visibility of the Church is con- 
tinual.” 

‘When there is an established Church,” said Goode, “this 
remedy is to be sought for. But this cannot be always had.” 

“The disease is continual,’ answered Campion; ergo the rem- 
edy must be continual.” Then he left the @ priori ground and 
entered theirs. “To whom should I have gone,” he cried, ‘“‘before 
Luther’s time? What prelates should I have made my complaint 
unto in those days? Where was your Church nine hundred 
years ago? Whose were John Huss, Jerome of Prague, the 
Waldenses? Were they yours?” ‘Then he turned scornfully to 
Fulke, “Help him, Master Doctor.” 

And Fulke repeated Goode’s assertion, that valuable as the 
remedy is, it cannot always be had. 

Anthony sat back, puzzled. Both sides seemed right. Perse- 
cution must often hinder the full privileges of Church member- 
ship and the exercise of discipline. Yet the question was, What 
was Christ’s intention? Was it that the Church should be vis- 
ible? It seemed that even the ministers allowed that, now. And 
if so, why then the Catholic’s claim that Christ’s intention had 
never been wholly frustrated, but that a visible unity was to be 
found amongst themselves—surely this was easier to believe than 
the Protestant theory that the Church which had been visible 
for fifteen centuries was not really the Church at all; but that 
the true Church had been invisible—in spite of Christ’s intention 
—during ali that period, and was now to be found only 
in small separated bodies scattered here and there. How 
of the prevailing of the gates of hell, if that were allowed to be 
true? 


At two o’clock they reassembled for the afternoon conference; 
and now they got even closer to the heart of the matter, for the 
subject was to be, whether the Church could err? 

Fulke aserted that it could, and did; and made a syllogism: 

‘‘Whatsoever error is incident to every member, is incident to 
the whole. But it is incident to every member to err; ergo, to 
the whole.” 

“T deny both major and minor,” said Campion quietly. “Every 


206 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


man may err, but not the whole gathered together; for the whole 
hath a promise, but so hath not every particular man.” 

Fulke denied this stoutly, and beat on the table. 

“Every member hath the spirit of Christ,” he said, “which is 
the spirit of truth; and therefore hath the same promise that the 
whole hath.” 

“Why, then,”’ said Campion, smiling, “there should be no her- 
etics.” 

“Ves,” answered Fulke, “heretics may be within the Church, 
but not of the Church.” 

And so they found themselves back again where they started 
from. 

Anthony sat back on the oak bench and sighed, and glanced 
round at the interested faces of the theologians and the yawns 
of the amateurs, as the debate rolled on over the old ground, 
and touched on free will, and grace, and infant baptism; until 
the Lieutenant interposed: 

“Master Doctors,” he said, with a judicial air, ‘the question 
that was appointed before dinner was, whether the visible Church 
may err’”—to which Goode retorted that the digressions were all 
Campion’s fault. 

Then the debate took the form of contradictions. 

‘“‘Whatsoever congregation doth err in matters of faith,” said 
Goods, “‘is not the true Church; but the Church of Rome erreth 
in matters of faith; ergo, it is not the true Church.” 

“T deny your minor,’ said Campion, “the Church of Rome 
hath not erred.” Then the same process was repeated over the 
Council of Trent; and the debate whirled off once more into 
details and irrelevancies about imputed righteousness, and the 
denial of the Cup to the laity. 

Again the audience grew restless. They had not come there, 
most of them, to listen to theological minutiz, but to see sport; 
and this interminable chopping of words that resulted in nothing 
bored them profoundly. A murmur of conversation began to 
buzz on all sides. 

Campion was in despair. 

“Thus shall we run into all questions,” he cried hopelessly, 
“and then we shall have done this time twelve months.” 

But Fulke would not let him be; but pressed on a question 
about the Council of Nice. 

“Now we shall have the matter of images,” sighed Campion. 

“You are nimis acutus,’ retorted Fulke, “you will leap over 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 207 


the stile or ever you come to it. I mean not to speak of 
images.” 

And so with a few more irrelevancies the debate ended. 

The third debate in September (on the twenty-third) at which 
Anthony was again present, was on the subject of the Real Pres- 
ence in the Blessed Sacrament. 

Fulke was in an evil temper, since it was common talk that 
Campion had had the best of the argument on the eighteenth. 

“The other day,” he said, “when we had some hope of your 
conversion, we forbare you much, and suffered you to discourse; 
but now that we see you are an obstinate heretic, and seek to 
cover the light of the truth with multitude of words, we mean 
not to allow you such large discourses as we did.” 

‘You are very imperious to-day,” answered Campion serenely, 
“whatsoever the matter is. I am the Queen’s prisoner, and 
none of yours.” 

‘“‘Not a whit imperious,” said Fulke angrily—‘“though I will 
exact of you to keep the right order of disputation.” 

Then the argument began. It soon became plain to Anthony 
that it was possible to take the Scripture in two senses, literally 
and metaphorically. The sacrament either was literally Christ’s 
body, or it was not. Who then was to decide? Father Campion 
said it meant the one; Dr. Fulke the other. Could it be pos- 
sible that Christ should leave His people in doubt of such a 
thing? Surely not, thought Anthony. Well, then, where is the 
arbiter? Father Campion says, The Church; Dr. Fulke says, 
The Scripture. But that is a circular argument, for the question 
to be decided is: What does the Scripture mean? for it may mean 
at least two things, at least so it would seem. Here then he found 
himself face to face with the claims of the Church of Rome to 
be that arbiter; and his heart began to grow sick with appre- 
hension as he saw how that Church supplied exactly what was 
demanded by the circumstances of the case—that is, an infallible 
living guide as to the meaning of God’s Revelation. The sim- 
plicity of her claim appalled him. 

He did not follow the argument closely, since it seemed to him 
but a secondary question now; though he heard one or two sen- 
tences. At one point Campion was explaining what the Church 
meant by substance. It was that which transcended the senses. 

‘Are you not Dr. Fulke?” he said. ‘‘And yet I see nothing 
but your colour and exterior form. The substance of Dr. Fulke 
cannot be seen.” 


208 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“T will not vouchsafe to reply upon this answer,” snarled 
Fulke, whose temper had not been improved by the debate— 
“too childish for a sophister!”’ 

Then followed interminable syllogisms, of which Campion 
would not accept the premises; and no real progress was made. 
The Jesuit tried to explain the doctrine that the wicked may be 
said not to eat the Body in the Sacrament, because they receive 
not the virtue of It, though they receive the Thing; but Fulke 
would not hear him. The distinction was new to Anthony, with 
his Puritan training, and he sat pondering it while the debate 
passed on. 

The afternoon discussion, too, was to little purpose. More and 
more Anthony, and others with him, began to see that the heart 
of the matter was the authority of the Church; and that unless 
that was settled, all other debate was beside the point; and the 
importance of this was brought out for him more clearly than 
ever on the 27th of the month, when the fourth and last debate 
took place, and on the subject of the sufficiency of the Scriptures 
unto salvation. 

Mr. Charke, who had now succeeded as disputant, began with 
extempore prayer, in which as usual the priest refused to join, 
praying and crossing himself apart. 

Mr. Walker then opened the disputation with a pompous and 
insolent speech about “one Campion,” an “unnatural man to 
his country, degenerated from an Englishman, an apostate in 
religion, a fugitive from this realm, unloyal to his prince.” Cam- 
pion sat with his eyes cast down, until the minister had done. 

Then the discussion began. The priest pointed out that 
Protestants were not even decided as to what were Scriptures 
and what were not, since Luther rejected three epistles in the 
New Testament; therefore, he argued, the Church is necessary 
as a guide, first of all, to tell men what is Scripture. Walker 
evaded by saying he was not a Lutheran but a Christian; and 
then the talk turned on to apocryphal books. But it was not 
possible to evade long, and the Jesuit soon touched his opponent. 

“To leave a door to traditions,’ he said, “which the Holy 
Ghost may deliver to the true Church, is both manifest and 
seen: as in the Baptism of infants, the Holy Ghost proceeding 
from Father to Son, and such other things mentioned, which 
are delivered by tradition. Prove these directly by Scripture if 
you can!” 

Charke answered by the analogy of circumcision which infants 


a 


THE COMING OF THE JESUITS 209 


received, and by quoting Christ’s words as to “sending” of 
the Comforter; and they were soon deep in detailed argument; 
but once more Anthony saw that it was all a question of the 
interpretation of Scripture; and, therefore, that it would seem 
that an authoritative interpreter was necessary—and where could 
such be found save in an infallible living Voice? And once 
more a question of Campion’s drove the point home. 

“Was all Scripture written when the Apostles first taught?” 
And Charke dared not answer yes. 

The afternoon’s debate concerned justification by faith, and 
this, more than ever, seemed to Anthony a secondary matter, now 
that he was realising what the claim of a living authority meant; 
and he sat back, only interested in watching the priest’s face, 
so controlled yet so transparent in its simplicity and steadfast- 
ness, as he listened to the ministers’ brutal taunts and insolence, 
and dealt his quiet skilful parries and ripostes to their incessant 
assaults. At last the Lieutenant struck the table with his hand, 
and intimated that the time was past, and after a long prayer 
by Mr. Walker, the prisoners were led back to their cells. 

As Anthony rode back alone in the evening sunlight, he was 
as one who was seeing a vision. ‘There was indeed a vision 
before him, that had been taking shape gradually, detail by 
detail, during these last months, and ousting the old one; and 
which now, terribly emphasised by Campion’s arguments and 
illuminated by the fire of his personality, towered up imperious, 
consistent, dominating—and across her brow her title, The Cath- 
olic Church. Far above all the melting cloudland of theory she 
moved, a stupendous fact; living in contrast with the dead 
past to which her enemies cried in vain; eloquent when other 
systems were dumb; authoritative when they hesitated; steady 
when they reeled and fell. About her throne dwelt her children, 
from every race and age, secure in her protection, and wise with 
her knowledge, when other men faltered and questioned and 
doubted: and as Anthony looked up and saw her for the first 
time, he recognised her as the Mistress and Mother of his soul; 
and although the blinding clouds of argument and theory and 
self-distrust rushed down on him again and filled his eyes with 
dust, yet he knew he had seen her face in very truth, and that 
the memory of that vision could never again wholly leave him. 


CHAPTER VI 
SOME CONTRASTS 


In the Lambeth household the autumn passed by uneventfully. 
The rigour of the Archbishop’s confinement had been mitigated, 
and he had been allowed now and again to visit his palace at 
Croydon; but his inactivity still continued as the sequestration 
was not removed; Elisabeth had refused to listen to the petition 
of Convocation in ’80 for his reinstatement. Anthony went 
down to the old palace once or twice with him; and was brought 
closer to him in many ways; and his affection and tenderness 
towards his master continually increased. Grindal was a pathetic 
figure at this time, with few friends, in poor health, out of favour 
with the Queen, who had disregarded his existence; and now 
his afflictions were rendered more heavy than ever by the blind- 
ness that was creeping over him. The Archbishop, too, in his 
loneliness and sorrow, was drawn closer to his young officer than 
ever before; and gradually got to rely upon him in many little 
ways. He would often walk with Anthony in the gardens at 
Lambeth, leaning upon his arm, talking to him of his beloved 
flowers and herbs which he was now almost too blind to see; 
telling him queer facts about the properties of plants; and even 
attempting to teach him a little irrelevant botany now and then. 

They were walking up and down together, soon after Cam- 
pion’s arrest, one August morning before prayers in a little walled 
garden on the river that Grindal had laid out with great care 
in earlier years. 

“Ah,” said the old man, “I am too blind to see my flowers 
now, Mr. Norris; but I love them none the less; and I know 
their places. Now there,” he went on, pointing with his stick, 
“there I think grows my mastick or marum; perhaps I smell it, 
however. What is that flower like, Mr. Norris?” 

Anthony looked at it, and described its little white flowers 
and its leaves. 

“That is it,’ said the Archbishop, “I thought my memory 
served me. It is a kind of marjoram, and it has many virtues, 
against cramps, convulsions and venomous bites—so Galen tells 

210 


SOME CONTRASTS 211 


us.” Then he went on to talk of the simple old plants that he 
loved best; of the two kinds of basil that he always had in his 
garden; and how good it was mixed in sack against the headache; 
and the male pennyroyal, and how well it had served him once 
when he had great internal trouble. 

“Mr. Gerrard was here a week or two ago, Mr. Norris, when 
you were down at Croydon for me. He is my Lord Burghley’s 
man; he oversees his gardens at Wimbledon House, and in the 
country. He was telling me of a rascal he had seen at a fair, 
who burned henbane and made folks with the toothache breathe 
in the fumes; and then feigned to draw a worm forth from the 
aching tooth; but it was no worm at all, but a lute string that 
he held ready in his hand. There are sad rascals abroad, Mr. 
Norris.” 

The old man waxed eloquent when they came to the iris bed. 

“Ah! Mr. Norris, the flowers-de-luce are over by now, I fear; 
but what wonderful creatures of God they are, with their great 
handsome heads and their cool flags. I love to hear a bed of 
them rustle all together and shake their spears and nod their 
banners like an army in array. And then they are not only for 
show. Apuleius says that they are good against the gout. I 
asked Mr. Gerrard whether my lord had tried them; but he said 
no, he would not.” 

At the violet bed he was yet more emphatic. 

“TY think, Mr. Norris, I love these the best of all. They are 
lowly creatures; but how sweet; and like the other lowly creatures 
exalted by their Maker to do great things as his handmaidens. 
The leaves are good against inflammations, and the flowers against 
ague and hoarseness as well. And then there is oil-of-violets, as 
you know; and violet-syrup and sugar-violet; then they are good 
for blisters; garlands of them were an ancient cure for the 
headache, as I think Dioscorides tells us. And they are the 
best of all cures for some children’s ailments.” 

And so they walked up and down together; the Archbishop 
talking quietly on and on; and helping quite unknown to himself 
by his tender irrelevant old man’s talk to soothe the fever of 
unrest and anxiety that was beginning to torment Anthony so 
much now. His conversation, like the very flowers he loved to 
speak of, was “good against inflammations.” 

Anthony came to him one morning, thinking to please him, 
and brought him a root that he had bought from a travelling 
pedlar just outside the gateway. 


212 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“This is a mandrake root, your Grace; I heard you speak of 
it the other day.” 

The Archbishop took it, smiling, felt it carefully, peered at it 
a minute or two. “No, my son,” he said, “I fear you have met 
a knave. This is briony-root carved like a mandrake into the 
shape of a man’s legs. It is worthless, I fear; but I thank you 
for the kind thought, Mr. Norris,’ and he gave the root back 
to him. “And the stories we hear of the mandrake, I fear, are 
fables, too. Some say that they only grow’ beneath gallows from 
that which falls there; that the male grows from the corruption 
of a man’s body; and the female from that of a woman’s; but 
that is surely a lie, and a foul one, too. And then folks say 
that to draw it up means death; and that the mandrake screams 
terribly as it comes up; and so they bid us tie a dog to it, and 
then drive the dog from it so as to draw it up so. I asked Mr. 
Baker, the chirurgeon in the household of my Lord Oxford, the 
other day, about that; and he said that such tales be but doltish 
dreams and old wives’ fables. But the true mandrake is a clean 
and wholesome plant. The true ointment Populeon should have 
the juice of the leaves in it; and the root boiled and strained 
causes drowsiness. It hath a predominate cold faculty, Galen 
saith; but its true home is not in England at all. It comes from 
Mount Garganus in Apulia.” 

It was pathetic, Anthony thought sometimes, that this old 
prelate should be living so far from the movements of the time, 
owing to no fault of his own. During these months the great 
tragedy of Campion’s passion was proceeding a couple of miles 
away; but the Archbishop thought less of it than of the death 
of an old tree. The only thing from the outside world that 
seemed to ruffle him was the behaviour of the Puritans. Anthony 
was passing though “le velvet-room” one afternoon when he 
heard voices in the Presence Chamber beyond; and almost imme- 
diately heard the Archbishop, who had recognised his step, call 
his name. He went in and found him with a stranger in a dark 
sober dress. 

“Take this gentleman to Mr. Scot,” he said, “and ask him to 
give him some refreshment; for that he must be gone directly.” 

When Anthony had taken the gentleman to the steward, he 
returned to the Archbishop for any further instructions about 
him. 

“No, Mr. Norris, my business is done with him. He comes 
from my lord of Norwich, and must be returning this evening. 


{ 


SOME CONTRASTS 213 


If you are not occupied, Mr. Norris, will you give me your arm 
into the garden?” 

They went out by the vestry-door into the little cloisters, and 
skirting the end of the creek that ran up by Chichele’s water- 
tower began to pace up and down the part of the garden that 
looked over the river. 

“My lord has sent to know if I know aught of one Robert 
Browne, with whom he is having trouble. This Mr. Browne has 
lately come from Cambridge, and so my lord thought I might 
know something of him; but I do not. This gentleman has been 
saying some wild and foolish things, I fear; and desires that 
every church should be free of all others; and should appoint its 
own minister, and rule its own affairs without interference, and 
that prophesyings should be without restraint. Now, you know, 
Mr. Norris, I have always tried to serve that party, and support 
them in their gospel religion; but this goes too far. Where were 
any governance at all, if all this were to come about? where 
were the Rule of Faith? the power of discipline? Nay, where were 
the unity for which our Saviour prayed? It liketh me not. 
Good Dr. Freake, as his messenger tells me, feels as I do about 
this; and desires to restrain Mr. Browne, but he is so hot he 
will not be restrained; and besides, he is some kin to my Lord 
Burghley, so I fear his mouth will be hard to stop.” 

Anthony could not help thinking of Mr. Buxton’s prediction 
that the Church of England had so repudiated authority, that 
in turn her own would one day be repudiated. 

“A Papist prisoner, your Grace,” he said, ‘‘said to me the 
other day that this would be sure to come: that the whole prin- 
ciple of Church authority had been destroyed in England; and 
that the Church of England would more and more be deserted 
by her children; for that there was no necessary centre of unity 
left, now that Peter was denied.” 

“It is what a Papist is bound to say,” replied the Archbishop; 
“but it is easy to prophesy, when fulfilment may be far away. 
Indeed, I think we shall have trouble with some of these zealous 
men; and the Queen’s Grace was surely right in desiring some 
restraint to be put upon the Exercises. But it is mere angry 
raving to say that the Church of England will lose the allegiance 
of her children.” 

Anthony could not feel convinced that events bore out the 
Archbishop’s assertion. Everywhere the Puritans were becoming 
more outrageously disloyal. There were everywhere signs of 


214 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


disaffection and revolt against the authorities of the Establish- 
ment, even on the part of the most sincere and earnest men, many 
of whom were looking forward to the day when the last rags 
of popery should be cast away, and formal Presbyterianism inau- 
gurated in the Church of England. Episcopal Ordination was 
more and more being regarded as a merely civil requirement, but 
conveying no ministerial commission; recognition by the congre- 
gation with the laying on of the hands of the presbyterate was 
the only ordination they allowed as apostolic. 

Anthony said a word to the Archbishop about this. 

“Vou must not be too strict,” said the old man. “Both views 
can be supported by the Scriptures; and although the Church 
of England at present recognises only Episcopal Ordination within 
her own borders, she does not dare to deny, as the Papists fondly 
do, that other rites may not be as efficacious as her own. That, 
surely, Master Norris, is in accordance with the mind of Christ 
that hath the spirit of liberty.” 

Much as Anthony loved the old man and his gentle charity, 
this doctrinal position as stated by the chief pastor of the Church 
of England scarcely served to establish his troubled allegiance. 

During these autumn months, too, both between and after 
the disputations in the Tower, the image of Campion had been 
much in his thoughts. Everywhere, except among the irrecon- 
cilables, the Jesuit was being well spoken of: his eloquence, his 
humour, and his apparent sincerity were being greatly commented 
on in London and elsewhere. Anthony, as has been seen, was 
being deeply affected on both sides of his nature; the shrewd 
wit of the other was in conflict with his own intellectual convic- 
tions, and this magnetic personality was laying siege to his heart. 
And now the last scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, 
was close at hand. 

Anthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, 
which took place during November, and was more than ever 
moved by what he saw and heard there. The priest, as even 
his opponents confessed, had by now ‘“‘won a marvellously good 
report, to be such a man as his like was not to be found, either 
for life, learning, or any other quality which might beautify 
a man.” And now here he stood at the bar, paler than ever, 
so numbed with racking that he could not lift his hand to plead— 
that supple musician’s hand of his, once so skilful on the lute— 
so that Mr. Sherwin had to lift it for him out of the furred cuff 
in which he had wrapped it, kissing it tenderly as he did so, in 


SOME CONTRASTS 218 


reverence for its sufferings; and he saw, too, the sleek face of 
Eliot, in his red yeoman’s coat, as he stood chatting at the back, 
like another Barabbas whom the people preferred to the servant 
of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion’s stirring 
defence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it 
broke now and then through weakness, in spite of the unconquer- 
able purpose and cheerfulness that showed in his great brown 
eyes, and round his delicate humorous mouth. It was indeed an 
astonishing combination of sincerity and eloquence, and even 
humour, that was brought to bear on the jury, and all in vain, 
during those days. 

“Tf you want to dispute as though you were in the schools,” 
cried one of the court, when he found himself out of his depth, 
“vou are only proving yourself a fool.” 

“T pray God,” said Campion, while his eyes twinkled, “I pray 
God make us both sages.” And, in spite of the tragedy of the 
day, a little hum of laughter ran round the audience. 

“If a sheep were stolen,’ he argued again, in answer to the 
presupposition that since some Catholics were traitors, therefore 
these were—‘‘and a whole family called in question for the same, 
were it good manner of proceeding for the accusers to say ‘Your 
great grandfathers and fathers and sisters and kinsfolk all loved 
mutton; ergo, you have stolen the sheep’?”’ 

Again, in answer to the charge that he and his companions had 
conspired abroad, he said, 

“As for the accusation that we plotted treason at Rheims, 
reflect, my lords, how just this charge is! For see! First we 
never met there at all; then, many of us have never been at 
Rheims at all; finally, we were never in our lives all together, 
except at this hour and in prison.” 

Anthony heard, too, Campion expose the attempt that was 
made to shift the charge from religion to treason. 

“There was offer made to us,” he cried indignantly, “that if 
we would come to the church to hear sermons and the word 
preached, we should be set at large and at liberty; so Pascall 
and Nicholls’”—(two apostates) ‘‘otherwise as culpable in all 
offences aS we, upon coming to church were received to grace 
and had their pardon granted; whereas, if they had been so happy 
as to have persevered to the end, they had been partakers of 
our calamities. So that our religion was cause of our imprison- 
ment, and ex consequenti, of our condemnation.” 

The Queen’s Counsel tried to make out that certain secrets 


216 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


that Campion, in an intercepted letter, had sworn not to reveal, 
must be treasonable or he would not so greatly fear their publica- 
tion. To this the priest made a stately defence of his office, 
and declaration of his staunchness. He showed how by his 
calling as a priest he was bound to secrecy in matters heard in 
confession, and that these secret matters were of this nature. 

“These were the hidden matters,” he said, ‘‘these were the 
secrets, to the revealing whereof I cannot nor will not be brought, 
come rack, come rope!” 

And again, when Sergeant Anderson interpreted a phrase of 
Campion’s referring to the great day to which he looked forward, 
as meaning the day of a foreign papal invasion, the prisoner 
cried in a loud voice: 

“Q Judas, Judas! No other day was in my mind, I protest, 
than that wherein it should please God to make a restituion of 
faith and religion. Whereupon, as in every pulpit every Protestant 
doth, I pronounced a great day, not wherein any temporal 
potentate should minister, but wherein the terrible Judge should 
reveal all men’s consciences, and try every man of each kind 
of religion. This is the day of change, this is the great day which 
I threatened; comfortable to the well-behaving, and terrible to 
all heretics. Any other day but this, God knows I meant not.” 

Then, after the other prisoners had pleaded, Campion delivered 
a final defence to the jury, with a solemnity that seemed to belong 
to a judge rather than a criminal. The babble of tongues that 
had continued most of the day was hushed to a profound silence 
in court as he stool and spoke, for the sincerity and simplicity of 
the priest were evident to all, and combined with his eloquence 
and his strange attractive personality, dominated all but those 
whose minds were already made up before entering the 
court. 

“What charge this day you sustain,” began the priest, in a 
steady low voice, with his searching eyes bent on the faces before 
him, “and what account you are to render at the dreadful Day 
of Judgment, whereof I could wish this also were a mirror, I 
trust there is not one of you but knoweth. I doubt not but in 
like manner you forecast how dear the innocent is to God, and 
at what price He holdeth man’s blood. Here we are accused and 
impleaded to the death,”—he began to raise his voice a little— 
“here you do receive our lives into your custody; here must be 
your device, either to restore them or condemn them. We have 
no whither to appeal but to your consciences; we have no friends 


SOME CONTRASTS 217 


to make there but your heeds and discretions.”’ Then he touched 
briefly on the evidence, showing how faulty and circumstantial 
it was, and urged them to remember that a man’s life by the 
very constitution of the realm must not be sacrificed to mere 
probabilities or presumptions; then he showed the untrustworthi- 
ness of his accusers, how one had confessed himself a murderer, 
and how another was an atheist. Then he ended with a word 
or two of appeal. 

“God give you grace,” he cried, “to weigh our causes aright, 
and have respect to your own consciences; and so I will keep 
the jury no longer. I commit the rest to God, and our convictions 
to your good discretions.” 

When the jury had retired, and all the judges but one had 
left the bench until the jury should return, Anthony sat back 
in his place, his heart beating and his eyes looking restlessly now 
on the prisoners, now on the door where the jury had gone out, 
and now on Judge Ayloff, whom he knew a little, and who sat 
only a few feet away from him on one side. He could hear the 
lawyers sitting below the judge talking among themselves; and 
presently one of them leaned over to him. 

“Good-day, Mr. Norris,” he said, ‘“‘you have come to see an 
acquittal, I doubt not. No man can be in two minds after what 
we have heard; at least concerning Mr. Campion. We all think 
so, here, at any rate.” _ 

The lawyer was going on to say a word or two more as to 
the priest’s eloquence, when there was a sharp exclamation from 
the judge. Anthony looked up and saw Judge Ayloff staring at 
his hand, turning it over while he held his glove in the other; 
and Anthony saw to his surprise that the fingers were all blood- 
stained. One or two gentlemen near him turned and looked, too, 
as the judge, still staring and growing a little pale, wiped the 
blood quickly away with the glove; but the fingers grew crimson 
again immediately. 

“°S’Body!” said Ayloff, half to himself; “ ’tis strange, there 
is no wound.” A moment later, looking up, he saw many of his 
neighbours glancing curiously at his hand and his pale face, and 
hastily thrust on his glove again; and immediately after the jury 
returned, and the judges filed in to take their places. Anthony’s 
attention was drawn off again, and the buzz of talk in the court 
was followed again by a deep silence. 

The verdict of Guilty was uttered, as had been prearranged, 
and the Queen’s Counsel demanded sentence. 


bol 
{ 


218 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Campion and the rest,” said Chief Justice Wray, “What can 
you say why you should not die?” 

Then Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless 
appeal. 

“Tt was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that 
we were not lords of our own lives, and therefore for want of 
answer would not be guilty of our own deaths. The only thing 
that we have now to Say is, that if our religion do make us 
traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; but otherwise are and 
have been true subjects as ever the Queen had. In condemning 
us, you condemn all your own ancestors,” and as he said this, his 
voice began to rise, and he glanced steadily and mournfully round 
at the staring faces about him, “all the ancient priests, bishops, 
and kings—all that was once the glory of England, the island 
of saints, and the most devoted child of the See of Peter.” Then, 
as he went on, he flung out his wrenched hands, and his voice 
rang with indignant defiance. ‘‘For what have we taught,” he 
cried, “however you may qualify it with the odious name of 
treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To be condemned 
with these old lights—not of England only, but of the world— 
by their degenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory to 
us.” Then, with a superb gesture, he sent his voice pealing 
through the hall: “God lives, posterity will live; their judgment 
is not so liable to corruption as that of those who are now about 
to sentence us to death.” 

There was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which 
stilled immediately, as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. 
But when the horrible details of his execution had been enumer- 
ated, and the formula had ended, it was the prisoner’s turn to 
applaud :— 

“Te Deum laudamus!”’ cried Campion; “Te Dominum con- 
fitemur.” 

“Haec est dies,’ shouted Sherwin, “quam fecit Dominus; exul- 
temus et laetemur in illa@”: and so with the thanksgiving and joy 
of the condemned criminals, the mock-trial ended. 

When Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that 
December morning a few days later, to see the end, he found a 
vast silent crowd assembled on Tower Hill and round the gate- 
way, where the four horses were waiting, each pair harnessed 
to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. He would not go in, for he 
could scarcely trust himself to speak, so great was his horror 
of the crime that was to be committed; so he backed his horse 


SOME CONTRASTS 219 


against the wall, and waited over an hour in silence, scarcely 
hearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled round the great 
crowd from time to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here 
was the climax of these days of misery and self-questioning that 
had passed since the trial in Westminster Hall. It was no use, 
he argued to himself, to pretend otherwise. These three men of 
God were to die for their religion—and a religion too which was 
gradually detaching itself to his view from the mists and clouds 
that hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God’s Revelation 
to man. He had come, he knew, to see not an execution but a 
martyrdom. 

There was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and 
the gate rolled back; a company of halberdiers emerged, and 
in their midst the three priests in laymen’s dress; behind followed 
a few men on horseback, with a little company of ministers, bible 
in hand; and then a rabble of officers and pursuivants. Anthony 
edged his horse in among the others, as the crowd fell back, and 
took up his place in the second rank of riders between a gentle- 
man of his acquaintance who made room for him on the one side, 
and Sir Francis Knowles on the other, and behind the Tower 
officials. 

Then once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first 
sound silenced the murmurs of the surging excited crowd. 

“God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you 
all good Catholics.” 

Then, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw 
his face paler than ever now, after his long fast in preparation 
for death. The rain was still falling as Campion in his frieze 
gown knelt in the mud. There was silence as he prayed, and as 
he ended aloud by commending his soul to God. 

“In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.” 


The three were secured to the hurdles. Briant and Sherwin 
on the one, Campion on the other, all lying on their backs, with 
their feet towards the horse’s heels. The word to start was given 
by Sir Owen Hopton who rode with Charke, the preacher of 
Gray’s Inn, in the front rank; the lashed horses plunged for- 
ward, with the jolting hurdles spattering mud behind them; and 
the dismal pageant began to move forward through the crowd 
on that way of sorrows. There was a ceaseless roar and babble 
of voices as they went. Charke, in his minister’s dress, able now 
to declaim without fear of reply, was hardly silent for a moment 


220 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


from mocking and rebuking the prisoners, and making pompous 
speeches to the people. 

“See here,” he cried, ‘‘these rogueing popish priests, laid by 
the heels, aye, by the heels—at last; in spite of their tricks and 
turns. See this fellow in his frieze gown, dead to the world as 
he brags; and know how he skulked and hid in his disguises 
till her Majesty’s servants plucked him forth! We will disguise 
him, we will disguise him, ere we have done with him, that his 
own mother should not know him. Ha, now! Campion, do you 
hear me?” 

And so the harsh voice rang out over the crowd that tramped 
alongside, and up to the faces that filled every window; while 
the ministers below kept up a ceaseless murmur of adjuration 
and entreaty and threatening, with a turning of leaves of their 
bibles, and bursts of prayer, over the three heads that jolted 
and rocked at their feet over the cobblestones and through the 
mud. The friends of the prisoners walked as near to them as 
they dared, and their lips moved continually in prayer. 

Every now and then as Anthony craned his head, he could 
see Campion’s face, with closed eyes and moving lips that smiled 
again and again, all spattered and dripping with filth; and once 
he saw a gentleman walking beside him fearlessly stoop down 
and wipe the priest’s face with a handkerchief. Presently they 
had passed up Cheapside and reached Newgate; in a niche in the 
archway itself stood a figure of the Mother of God looking com- 
passionately down; and as Campion’s hurdle passed beneath it, 
her servant wrenched himself a few inches up in his bonds and 
bowed to his glorious Queen; and then laid himself down quietly 
again, as a chorus of lament rose from the ministers over his 
superstition and obstinate idolatry that seemed as if it would 
last even to death; and Charke too, who had become somewhat 
more silent, broke out again into revilings. 


The crowd at Tyburn was vast beyond all reckoning. Outside 
the gate it stretched on every side, under the elms, a few were 
even in the branches, along the sides of the stream; everywhere 
was a sea of heads, out of which, on a little eminence like another 
Calvary, rose up the tall posts of the three-cornered gallows, on 
which the martyrs were to suffer. As the hurdles came slowly 
under the gate, the sun broke out for the first time; and as the 
horses that drew the hurdles came round towards the carts that 
stood near the gallows and the platform on which the quartering 


SOME CONTRASTS 221 


block stood, a murmur began that ran through the crowd from 
those nearest the martyrs—‘But they are laughing, they are 
laughing!” 

The crowd gave a surge to and fro as the horses drew up, 
and Anthony reined his own beast back among the people, so 
that he was just opposite the beam on which the three new 
ropes were already hanging, and beneath which was standing a 
cart with the back taken out. In the cart waited a dreadful 
figure in a tight-fitting dress, sinewy arms bare to the shoulder, 
and a butcher’s knife at his leather girdle. A little distance 
away stood the hateful cauldron, bubbling fiercely, with black 
smoke pouring from under it: the platform with the block and 
quartering-axe stood beneath the gallows; and round this now 
stood the officers, with Norton the rack-master, and Sir Owen 
Hopton and the rest, and the three priests, with the soldiers 
forming a circle to keep the crowd back. 

The hangman stooped as Anthony looked, and a moment later 
Campion stood beside him on the cart, pale, mud-splashed, but 
with the same serene smile; his great brown eyes shone as they 
looked out over the wide heaving sea of heads, from which a 
deep heart-shaking murmur rose as the famous priest appeared. 
Anthony could see every detail of what went on; the hangman 
took the noose that hung from above, and slipped it over the 
prisoner’s head, and drew it close round his neck; and then 
himself slipped down from the cart, and stood with the others, 
still well above the heads of the crowd, but leaving the priest 
standing higher yet on the cart, silhouetted, rope and all, framed 
in the posts and cross-beam, from which two more ropes hung 
dangling against the driving clouds and blue sky over London 
city. 


Campion waited perfectly motionless for the murmur of innu- 
merable voices to die down; and Anthony, fascinated and afraid 
beneath that overpowering serenity, watched him turn his head 
slowly from side to side with a “majestical countenance,” as 
his enemies confessed, as if he were on the point of speaking. 
Silence seemed to radiate out from him, spreading like a ripple, 
outwards, until the furthest outskirts of that huge crowd was 
motionless and quiet; and then without apparent effort, his voice 
began to peal out. 


“ <Spectaculum facti sumus Deo, angelis et homintbus’ These 
are the words of Saint Paul, Englished thus, ‘We are made a 


222 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


spectacle or sight unto God, unto His angels, and unto men’;— 
verified this day in me, who am here a spectacle unto my Lord 
God, a spectacle unto His angels, and unto you men, satisfying 
myself to die as becometh a true Christian and Catholic man.” 

He was interrupted by cries from the gentleman beneath, and 
turned a little, looking down to see what they wished. 

“Vou are not here to preach to the people,” said Sir Francis 
Knowles, angrily, “‘but to confess yourself a traitor.” 

Campion smiled and shook his head. 

“No, no,” he said: and then looking up and raising his voice, 
—‘as to the treasons which have been laid to my charge, and for 
which I am come here to suffer, I desire you all to bear witness 
with me, that I am thereof altogether innocent.” 

There was a chorus of anger from the gentlemen, and one of 
them called up something that Anthony could not hear. Campion 
raised his eyebrows. 

“Well, my lord,” he cried aloud, and his voice instantly silenced 
again the noisy buzz of talk, “I am a Catholic man and a priest: 
in that faith have I lived, and in that faith do I intend to die. 
If you esteem my religion treason, then am I guilty; as for other 
treason, I never committed any, God is my judge. But you have 
now what you desire. I beseech you to have patience, and suffer 
me to speak a word or two for discharge of my conscience.” 

There was a furious burst of refusals from the officers. 

“Well,” said Campion, at last, looking straight out over the 
crowd, “it seems I may not speak; but this only will I say; that 
I am wholly innocent of all treason and conspiracy, as God is 
my Judge; and I beseech you to credit me, for it is my last 
answer upon my death and soul. As for the jury, I do not blame 
them, for they were ignorant men and easily deceived. I forgive 
all who have compassed my death or wronged me in any whit, 
as I hope to be forgiven; and I ask the forgiveness of all those 
whose names I spoke upon the rack.” 

Then he said a word or two more of explanation, such as he 
had said during his trial, for the sake of those Catholics whom 
this a concession of his had scandalised, telling them that he had 
had the promise of the Council that no harm should come to 
those whose names he revealed; and then was silent again, clos- 
ing his eyes; and Anthony, as he watched him, saw his lips mov- 
ing once more in prayer. 

Then a harsh loud voice from behind the cart began to pro- 
claim that the Queen punished no man for religion but only for 


SOME CONTRASTS 222 


treason. A fierce murmur of disagreement and protest began to 
rise from the crowd; and Anthony turning saw the faces of 
many near him frowning and pursing their lips, and there was 
a shout or two of denial here and there. The harsh voice ceased, 
and another began: 

“Now, Mr. Campion,” it cried, “tell us, What of the Pope? 
Do you renounce him?” 

Campion opened his eyes and looked round. 

“T am a Catholic,” he said simply; and closed his eyes again 
for prayer, as the voice cried brutally: 

“Tn your Catholicism all treason is contained.” 

Again a murmur from the crowd. 

Then a new voice from the black group of ministers called out: 

“Mr. Campion, Mr. Campion, leave that popish stuff, and say, 
“Christ have mercy on me.’ ” 

Again the priest opened his eyes. 

“You and I are not one in religion, sir, wherefore I pray 
you content yourself. I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them 
of the household of faith to pray with me; and in mine agony 
to say one creed.” 

Again he closed his eyes. 

“Pater noster qui es tn celis.” . 

“Pray in English, pray in English!” shouted a voice from the 
minister’s group. 

Once more the priest opened his eyes; and, in spite of the 
badgering, his eyes shone with humour and his mouth broke 
into smiles, so that a great sob of pity and love broke from 
Anthony. 

“{ will pray to God in a language that both He and I well 
understand.” 

“Ask her Grace’s forgiveness, Mr. Campion, and pray for 
her, if you be her true subject.” 

“Wherein have I offended her? In this I am innocent. This 
is my last speech; in this give me credit—I have and do pray 
for her.” 

“Aha! but which queen?—for Elizabeth?” 

“Ay, for Elizabeth, your queen and my queen, unto whom I 
wish a long quiet reign with all prosperity.” 


There was the crack of a whip, the scuffle of a horse’s feet, a 
rippling movement over the crowd, and a great murmured roar, 
like the roar of the waves on a pebbly beach, as the horse’s 


224 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


head began to move forward; and the priest’s figure to sway and 
stagger on the jolting car. Anthony shut his eyes, and the 
murmur and cries of the crowd grew louder and louder. Once 
more the deep sweet voice rang out, loud and penetrating: 

“I die a true Catholic. . . .” 

Anthony kept his eyes closed, and his head bent, as great sobs 
began to break up out of his heart... . 

Ah! he was in his agony now! that sudden cry and silence from 
the crowd showed it. What was it he had asked? one creed?— 

“T believe in God the Father Almighty.” 

The soft heavy murmur of the crowd rose . and fell. Catholics 
were praying all round him, reckless with love and pity: 

“Jesu, Jesu, save him! Be to him a Jesus!” ... 

“Mary pray! Mary pray!” ... 

“Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem.” 

“Passus sub Pontio Pilato.” ... 

“Crucified dead and buried.” ... 

“The forgiveness of sins.” .. . 

“And the Life Everlasting.” ... 


Anthony dropped his face forward on to his horse’s mane. 


CHAPTER VII 
A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 


Sr Francis WALSINGHAM Sat in his private room a month after 
Father Campion’s death. 

He had settled down again now to his work which had been 
so grievously interrupted by his mission to France in connection 
with a new treaty between that country and England in the 
previous year. The secret detective service that he had inau- 
gurated in England chiefly for the protection of the Queen’s person 
was a vast and complicated business, and the superintendence of 
this, in addition to the other affairs of his office, made him an 
exceedingly busy man. England was honeycombed with mines 
and countermines both in the political and the religious world, 
and it needed all this man’s brilliant and trained faculties to 
keep abreast with them. His spies and agents were everywhere; 
and not only in England: they circled round Mary of Scotland 
like flies round a wounded creature, seeking to settle and pen- 
etrate wherever an opening showed itself. These Scottish trou- 
bles would have been enough for any ordinary man; but Walsing- 
ham was indefatigable, and his agents were in every prison, 
lurking round corridors in private houses, found alike in thieves’ 
kitchens and at gentlemen’s tables. 

Just at present Walsingham was anxious to give all the atten- 
tion he could to Scottish affairs; and on this wet dreary Thursday 
morning in January as he sat before his bureau, he was meditat- 
ing how to deal with an affair that had come to him from the 
heart of London, and how if possible to shift the conduct of it 
on to other shoulders. 

He sat and drummed his fingers on the desk, and stared med- 
itatively at the pigeon-holes before him. His was an interesting 
face, with large, melancholy, and almost fanatical eyes, and a 
poet’s mouth and forehead; but it was probably exactly his imag- 
inative faculties that enabled him to picture public affairs from 
the points of view of the very various persons concerned in 
them; and thereby to cope with the complications arising out 
of these conflicting interests. 

225 


226 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


He stroked his pointed beard once or twice, and then struck a 
hand-bell at his side; and a servant entered. 

“Tf Mr. Lackington is below,” he said, “show him here imme- 
diately,” and the servant went out. 

Lackington, sometime servant to Sir Nicholas Maxwell, had 
entered Sir Francis’ service instead, at the same time that he 
had exchanged the Catholic for the Protestant religion; and he 
was now one of his most trusted agents. But he had been in so 
many matters connected with recusancy, that a large number of 
the papists in London were beginning to know him by sight; 
and the affairs were becoming more and more scarce in which 
he could be employed among Catholics with any hope of success. 
It was his custom to call morning by morning at Sir Francis’ 
office and receive his instructions; and just now he had 
returned from business in the country. Presently he en- 
tered, closing the door behind him, and bowed profoundly to his 
master. 

“T have a matter on hand, Lackington,” said Sir Francis, 
without looking at him, and without any salutation beyond a 
glance and a nod as he entered,—‘‘a matter which I have not 
leisure to look into, as it is not, I think, anything more than 
mere religion; but which might, I think, repay you for your 
trouble, if you can manage it in any way. But it is a troublesome 
business. These are the facts. 

“No. 3 Newman’s Court, in the City, has been a suspected 
house for some while. J have had it watched, and there is no 
doubt that the papists use it. I thought at first that the Scots 
were mixed up with it; but that is not so. Yesterday, a boy of 
twelve years old, left the house in the afternoon, and was followed 
to a number of houses, of which I will give you the list presently; 
and was finally arrested in Paul’s Churchyard and brought here. 
I frightened him with talk of the rack; and I think I have the 
truth out of him now; I have tested him in the usual ways— 
and all that I can find is that the house is used for mass now 
and then; and that he was going to the papists’ houses yesterday 
to bid them come for next Sunday morning. But he was stopped 
too soon: he had not yet told the priest to come. Now unless 
the priest is told to-night by one whom he trusts, there will be 
no mass on Sunday, and the nest of papists will escape us. It 
is of no use to send the boy; as he will betray all by his behaviour, 
even if we frighten him into saying what we wish to the priest. 
I suppose it is of no use your going to the priest and feigning to 


A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 227 


be a Catholic messenger; and I cannot at this moment see what 
is to be done. If there were anything beyond mere religion in 
this, I would spare no pains to hunt them out; but it is not worth 
my while. Yet there is the reward; and if you think that you 
can do anything, you can have it for your pains. I can spare 
you till Monday, and of course you shall have what men you 
will to surround the house and take them at mass, if you can 
but get the priest there.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Lackington deferentially. “Have I 
your honour’s leave to see the boy in your presence?” 

Walsingham struck the bell again. 

“Bring the lad that is locked in the steward’s parlour,” he 
said, when the servant appeared—‘‘Sit down, Lackington, and 
examine him when he comes.” 

And Sir Francis took down some papers from a pigeon-hole, 
sorted out one or two, and saying, “Here are his statements,” 
handed them to the agent; who began to glance through them 
at once. Walsingham then turned to his table again and began 
to go on with his letters. 

In a moment or two the door opened, and a little lad of twelve 
years old, came in, followed by the servant. 

“That will do,” said Walsingham, without looking up; “You 
can leave him here,” and the servant went out. The boy stood 
back against the wall by the door, his face was white and his eyes 
full of horror, and he looked in a dazed way at the two men. 

“What is your name, boy?” began Lackington in a sharp, 
judicial tone. 

“John Belton,” said the lad in a tremulous voice. 

“And you are a little Papist?’”’ asked the agent. 

“No, sir; a Protestant.” 

“Then how is it that you go on errands for Papists?”’ 

“T am a servant, sir,” said the boy imploringly. 

Lackington turned the papers over for a moment or two. 

“Now you know,” he began again in a threatening voice, “that 
this gentleman has power to put you on the rack; you know what 
that is?” 

The boy nodded in mute, white-faced terror. 

“Well, now, he will hear all you say; and will know whether 
you say the truth or not. Now tell me if you still hold to what 
you said yesterday.” 

And then Lackington with the aid of the papers ran quickly 
over the story that Sir Francis had related. ‘‘Now do you mean 


— 228 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


to tell me, John Belton,” he added, “that you, a Protestant and 
a lad of twelve, are employed on this work by papists, to gather 
them for mass?” 

The boy looked at him with the same earnest horror. 

“Ves, sir, yes, sir,” he said, and there was a piteous sob in 
his voice. “Indeed it is all true: but I do not often go on these 
messages for my master. Mr. Roger generally goes: but he is 
sick.” 

“Oho!” said Lackington, “you did not say that yesterday.” 

The boy was terrified. 

“No, sir,” he cried out miserably, ‘the gentleman did not 
ask me. 

“Well, who is Mr. Roger? What is he like?” 

“He is my master’s servant, sir; and he wears a patch over 
his eye; and stutters a little in his speech.” 

These kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad’s 
power of invention, and Lackington was more satisfied. 

“And what was the message that you were to give to the folk 
and the priest?” 

“Please, sir, ‘Come, for all things are now ready. 

This was such a queer answer that Lackington gave an in- 
credulous exclamation. 

“Tt is probably true,” said Sir Francis, without looking up 
from his letters; ‘I have come across the same kind of cypher, 
at least once before.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said the agent. “And now, my boy, tell 
me this. How did you know what it meant?” 

“Please, sir,” said the lad, a little encouraged by the kinder 
tone, “I have noticed that twice before when Mr. Roger could 
not go, and I was sent with the same message, all the folks and 
the priest came on the next Sunday; and I think that it means 
that all is safe, and that they can come.” 

“You are a sharp lad,” said the spy approvingly. “I am 
satisfied with you.” 

“Then, sir, may I go home?” asked the boy with hopeful 
entreaty in his voice. 

“Nay, nay,” said the other, “I have not done with you yet. 
Answer me some more questions. ‘‘Why did you not go to 
the priest first?” 

“Because I was bidden to go to him last,” said the boy. “If 
I had been to all the other houses by five o’clock last night, 
then I was to meet the priest at Papists’ Corner in Paul’s Church. 


+ 9? 


A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 229 


But if I had not done them—as I had not,—then I was to see 
the priest to-night at the same place.” 

Lackington mused a moment. 

“What is the priest’s name?” he asked. 

“Please, sir, Mr. Arthur Oldham.” 

The agent gave a sudden start and a keen glance at the boy, 
and then smiled to himself; then he meditated, and bit his nails 
once or twice. 

“And when was Mr. Roger taken ill?” 

“He slipped down at the door of his lodging and hurt his 
foot, at dinner-time yesterday; and he could not walk.” 

“His lodging? Then he does not sleep in the house?” 

“No sir; he sleeps in Stafford Alley, round the corner.” 

“And where do you live?” 

“Please, sir, I go home to my mother nearly every night; but 
not always.” 

“And where does your mother live?” 

“Please, sir, at 4 Bell’s Lane.” 

Lackington remained deep in thought, and looked at the boy 
steadily for a minute or two. 

“Now, sir; may I go?” he asked eagerly. 

Lackington paid no attention, and he repeated his question. 
The agent still did not seem to hear him, but turned to Sir 
Francis, who was still at his letters. 

“That is all, sir, for the present,” he said. “May the boy 
be kept here till Monday?” 

The lad broke out into wailing; but Lackington turned on him 
a face so savage that his whimpers died away into horror-stricken 
silence. 

“As you will,” said Sir Francis, pausing for a moment in his 
writing, and striking the bell again; and, on the servant’s appear- 
ance, gave orders that John Belton should be taken again to 
the steward’s parlour until further directions were received. The 
boy went sobbing out and down the passage again under the 
servant’s charge, and the door closed. 

“And the mother?” asked Walsingham abruptly, pausing with 
pen upraised. 

“With your permission, sir, I will tell her that her boy is in 
trouble, and that if his master sends to inquire for him, she is 
to say he is sick upstairs.” 

“And you will report to me on Monday?” 

“Yes, sir; by then I shall hope to have taken the crew.” 


230 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Sir Francis nodded his head sharply, and the pen began to fly 
over the paper again as Lackington slipped out. 


Anthony Norris was passing through the court of Lambeth 
House in the afternoon of the same day, when the porter came 
to him and said there was a child waiting in the Lodge with a 
note for him; and would Master Norris kindly come to see her. 
He found a little girl on the bench by the gate, who stood up and 
curtseyed as the grand gentleman came striding in; and handed 
him a note which he opened at once and read. 

“For the love of God,’’=the note ran, ‘“‘come and aid one who 
can be of service to a friend: follow the little maid, Master 
Norris, and she will bring you to me. If you have any friends 
at Great Keynes, for the love you bear to them, come quickly.” 

Anthony turned the note over; it was unsigned, and undated. 
On his inquiry further from the little girl, she said she knew 
nothing about the writer; but that a gentleman had given her 
the note and told her to bring it to Master Anthony Norris ‘at 
Lambeth House; and that she was to take him to a house that 
she knew in the city; she did not know the name of the house, 
she said. 

It was all very strange, thought Anthony, but evidently here 
was some one who knew about him; the reference to Great 
Keynes made him think uneasily of Isabel and wonder whether 
any harm had happened to her, or whether any danger threatened. 
He stood musing with the note between his fingers, and then told 
the child to go straight down to Paul’s Cross and await him there, 
and he would follow immediately. The child ran off, and Anthony 
went round to the stables to get his horse. He rode straight 
down to the city and put up his horse in the Bishop’s stables, 
and then went round with his riding-whip in his hand to Paul’s 
Cross. 

It was a dull miserable afternoon, beginning to close in with 
a fine rain falling, and very few people were about; and he found 
the child crouched up against the pulpit in an attempt to keep 
dry. 
“Come,” he said kindly, “I am ready; show me the way.” 

The child led him along by the Cathedral through the church- 
yard, and then by winding passages, where Anthony kept a good 
look-out at the corners; for a stab in the back was no uncommon 
thing for a well-dressed gentleman off his guard. The houses 
overhead leaned so nearly together that the darkening sky dis- 


A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 231 


appeared altogether now and then; at one spot Anthony caught 
a glimpse high up of Bow Church spire; and after a corner or 
two the child stopped before a doorway in a little flagged court. 

“Tt is here,’ she said; and before Anthony could stop her she 
had slipped away and disappeared through a passage. He looked 
at the house. It was a tumble-down place; the door was heavily 
studded with nails, and gave a most respectable air to the house: 
the leaded windows were just over his head, and tightly closed. 
There was an air of mute discretion and silence about the place 
that roused a vague discomfort in Anthony’s mind; he slipped 
his right hand into his belt and satisfied himself that the hilt of 
his knife was within reach. Overhead the hanging windows and 
eaves bulged out on all sides; but there was no one to be seen; 
it seemed a place that had slipped into a backwater of the hum- 
ming stream of the city. The fine rain still falling added to the 
dismal aspect of the little court. He looked round once more; and 
then rapped sharply at the door to which the child had pointed. 

There was silence for at least a minute; then as he was about 
to knock again there was a faint sound overhead, and he looked 
up in time to see a face swiftly withdrawn from one of the 
windows. Evidently an occupant of the house had been exam- 
ining the visitor. Then shuffling footsteps came along a passage 
within, and a light shone under the door. There was a noise 
of bolts being withdrawn, and the rattle of a chain; and then 
the handle turned and the door opened slowly inwards, and an 
old woman stood there holding an oil lamp over her head. This 
was not very formidable at any rate. 

“T have been bidden to come here,” he said, ‘‘ by a letter de- 
livered to me an hour ago.” 

“Ah,” said the old woman, and looked at him peeringly, “then 
you are for Mr. Roger?” 

“T daresay,” said Anthony, a little sharply. He was not accus- 
tomed to be treated like this. The old woman still looked at him 
suspiciously; and then, as Anthony made a movement of impa- 
tience, she stepped back. 

“Come in, sir,” she said. 

He stepped in, and she closed and fastened the door again 
behind him; and then, holding the oil-lamp high over her head, 
she advanced on her slippers towards the staircase, and Anthony 
followed. On the stairs she turned once to see if he was coming, 
and beckoned him on with a movement of her head. Anthony 
looked about him as he went up: there was nothing remarkable 


232 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


or suspicious about the house in any way. It was cleaner than 
he had been led to expect by its outside aspect; wainscoted to 
the ceiling with oak; and the stairs were strong and well made. 
It was plainly a very tolerably respectable place; and Anthony 
began to think from its appearance that he had been admitted 
at the back door of some well-to-do house off Cheapside. The 
banisters were carved with some distinction; and there were the 
rudimentary elements of linen-pattern design on the panels that 
lined the opposite walls up to the height of the banisters. The 
woman went up and up, slowly, panting a little; at each landing 
she turned and glanced back to see that her companion was fol- 
lowing: all the doors that they passed were discreetly shut; and 
the house was perfectly dark except for the flickering light of the 
woman’s lamp, and silent except for the noise of the footsteps 
and the rush of a mouse now and then behind the woodwork. 

At the third landing she stopped, and came close up to Anthony. 

“That is the door,” she whispered hoarsely; and pointed with 
her thumb towards a doorway that was opposite the staircase. 
‘“‘Ask for Master Roger.” 

And then without saying any more, she set the lamp down on 
the flat head of the top banister and herself began to shuffle 
downstairs again into the dark house. 

Anthony stood still a moment, his heart beating a little. What 
was this strange errand? and Isabel! what had she to do with 
this house buried away in the courts of the great city? As he 
waited he heard a door close somewhere behind him, and the 
shuffling footsteps had ceased. He touched the hilt of his knife 
once again to give himself courage; and then walked slowly 
across and rapped on the door. Instantly a voice full of trembling 
expectancy, cried to him to come in; he turned the handle and 
stepped into the fire-lit room. 

It was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the 
centre with a book or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan 
hissed and bubbled on the fire; in the corner near the window 
stood a poor bed; and to this Anthony’s attention was immedi- 
ately directed by a voice that called out hoarsely: 

“Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you 
would not.” 

Anthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but 
reassured. Lying in the bed, with clothes drawn up to the chin, 
was the figure of a man. There was no light in the room, save 
that given by the leaping flames on the hearth; and Anthony 


A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 233 


could only make out the face of a man with a patch over one 
eye; the man stretched a hand over the bed clothes as he came 
near, and Anthony took it, a little astonished, and received a 
strong trembling grip of apparent excitement and relief: “Thank 
God, sir!” the man said again, “‘but there is not too much time.” 

“How can I serve you?” said Anthony, sitting on a chair near 
the bedside. ‘Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. 
What did you mean by that?” 

“Ts the d-door closed, sir?” asked the man anxiously, stutter- 
ing a little as he spoke. 

Anthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came 
back and sat down again. 

“Well then, sir, I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr. 
M-Maxwell’s.”’ 

Anthony shook his head. 

“There is no priest of that name that I know.” 

“Ah,” cried the man, and his voice shook, ‘have I said too 
much? You are Mr. Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and 
of the Archbishop’s household?” .. . 

“T am,” said Anthony, “but ye y 

“Well, well,” said the man, ‘I must go forward now. He whom 
you know as Mr. James Maxwell is a Catholic p-priest, known 
to many under the name of Mr. Arthur Oldham. He is in sore 
d-danger.” 

Anthony was silent through sheer astonishment. This then 
was the secret of the mystery that had hung round Mr. James 
so long. The few times he had met him in town since his return, 
it had been on the tip of his tongue to ask what he did there, 
and why Hubert was to be master of the Hall; but there was 
something in Mr. James’ manner that made the asking of such 
a question appear an impossible liberty; and it had remained 
unasked. 

“Well,” said the man in bed, in anxious terror, “there is no 
mistake, is there?” 

“T said nothing,” said Anthony, “for astonishment; I had no 
idea that he was a priest. And how can I serve him?” 

“He is in sore danger,” said the man, and again and again 
there came the stutter. “Now I am a Catholic: you see how 
much I t-trust you, sir. I am the only one in this house. I was 
entrusted with a m-message to Mr. Maxwell to put him on his 
guard against a danger that threatens him. I was to meet him 
this very evening at five of the clock; and this afternoon as I left 





234 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


my room, I slipped and so hurt my foot that I cannot put it 
to the ground. I dared not send a I-letter to Mr. Maxwell, for 
fear the child should be followed; I dared not send to another 
Catholic; nor indeed did I know where to find one whom Mr. 
M-Maxwell would know and trust, as he is new to us here; but 
I had heard him speak of his friend Mr. Anthony Norris, who 
was at Lambeth House; and I determined, sir, to send the child 
to you; and ask you to do this service for your friend; for an 
officer of the Archbishop’s household is beyond suspicion. N-now, 
sir, will you do this service? If you do it not, I know not where 
to turn for help.” 

Anthony was silent. He felt a little uneasy. Supposing that 
there was sedition mixed up in this! How could he trust the 
man’s story? How could he be certain in fact that he was a 
Catholic at all? He looked at him keenly in the fire-light. The 
man’s one eye shone in deep anxiety, and his forehead was 
wrinkled; and he passed his hand nervously over his mouth again 
and again. 

“How can I tell,” said Anthony, “that all this is true?” 

The man with an impatient movement unfastened his shirt at 
the neck and drew up on a string that was round his neck a little 
leather case. 

“Th-there, sir,” he stammered, drawing the string over his 
head. ‘‘T-take that to the fire and see what it is.” 

Anthony took it curiously, and holding it close to the fire drew 
off the little case; there was the wax medal stamped with the 
lamb, called Agnus Det. 

“Th-there,” cried the man from the bed, “now I have p-put 
myself in your hands—and if more is w-wanted ” and as 
Anthony came back holding the medal, the man fumbled beneath 
the pillow and drew out a rosary. 

““N-now, sir, do you believe me?” 

It was felony to possess these things and Anthony had no more 
doubts. 

“Yes,” he said, “and I ask your pardon.” And he gave back 
the Agnus Dei. ‘‘But there is no sedition in this?” 

‘“‘N-none, sir, I give you my word,” said the man, apparently 
greatly relieved, and sinking back on his pillow. “I will tell you 
all, and you can judge for yourself; but you will promise to be 
secret.”” And when Anthony had given his word, he went on. 

“‘M-Mass was to have been said in Newman’s Court on Sunday, 
at number 3, but that c-cursed spy Walsingham, hath had wind 





A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 235 


of it. His men have been lurking round there; and it is not safe. 
However, there is no need to say that to Mr. Maxwell; he will 
understand enough if you will give him a message of half a dozen 
words from me,—Mr. Roger. You can tell him that you saw me, 
if you wish to. But ah! sir, you give me your word to say no 
more to any one, not even to Mr. Maxwell himself, for it is in a 
public place. And then I will teil you the p-place and the 
m-message; but we must be swift, because the time is near; it is 
at five of the clock that he will look for a messenger.” 

“T give you my word,” said Anthony. 

“Well, sir, the place is Papists’ Corner in the Cathedral, and 
the words are these, ‘Come, for all things are now ready.’ You 
know sir, that we Catholics go in fear of our lives, and like the 
poor hares have to double and turn if we would escape. If any 
overhears that message, he will never know it to be a warning. 
And it was for that that I asked your word to say no more than 
your message, with just the word that you had seen me yourself. 
You may tell him, of course sir, that Mr. Roger had a patch over 
his eye and st-stuttered a little in his speech; and he will know 
it is from me then. Now, sir, will you tell me what the message 
is, and the place, to be sure that you know them; and then, sir, 
it will be time to go; and God bless you, sir, God bless you for 
your kindness to us poor papists!”’ 

The man seized Anthony’s gloved hand and kissed it fervently 
once or twice. 

Anthony repeated his instructions carefully. He was more 
touched than he cared to show by the evident gratitude and relief 
of this poor terrified Catholic. 

“Th-that is right, sir; that is right; and now, sir, if you please, 
be gone at once; or the Father will have left the Cathedral. The 
child will be in the court below to show you the way out to the 
churchyard. God bless you, sir; and reward you for your 
kindness!” 

And as Anthony went out of the room he heard benedictions 
mingled with sobs following him. The woman was nowhere to 
be seen; so he took the oil-lamp from the landing, and found his 
way downstairs again, unfastened the front door, and went out, 
leaving the lamp on the floor. The child was leaning against the 
wall opposite; he could just see the glimmer of her face in the 
heavy dusk. 

“Come, my child,” he said, “show me the way to the church- 
yard.” 


236 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


She came forward, and he began to follow her out of the little 
flagged court. He turned round as he left the court and saw 
high up against the blackness overhead a square of window 
lighted with a glow from within; and simultaneously there came 
the sound of bolts being shut in the door that he had just left. 
Evidently the old woman had been on the watch, and was now 
barring the door behind him. 

It wanted courage to do as Anthony was doing, but he was not 
lacking in that; it was not a small matter to go to Papists’ 
Corner and give a warning to a Catholic priest; but firstly, James 
Maxwell was his friend, and in danger; secondly, Anthony had 
no sympathy with religious persecution; and thirdly, as has been 
seen, the last year had made a really deep impression upon him: 
he was more favourably inclined to the Catholic cause than he 
had ever imagined to be possible. 

As he followed the child through the labyrinth of passages, 
passing every now and then the lighted front of a house, or a 
little group of idlers (for the rain had now ceased) who stared 
to see this gentleman in such company, his head was whirling 
with questions and conjectures. Was it not after all a dishonour- 
able act to the Archbishop in whose service he was, thus to take 
the side of the Papists? But that it was too late to consider now. 
—How strange that James Maxwell was a priest! That of course 
accounted at once for his long absence, no doubt in the seminary 
abroad, and his ultimate return, and for Hubert’s inheriting the 
estates. And then he passed on to reflect as he had done a hun- 
dred times before on this wonderful Religion that allured men 
from home and wealth and friends, and sent them rejoicing to 
penury, suspicion, hatred, peril, and death itself, for the kingdom 
of heaven’s sake. 

Suddenly he found himself in the open space opposite the 
Cathedral—the child had again disappeared. 

It was less dark here; the leaden sky overhead still glimmered 
with a pale sunset light; and many house-windows shone out from 
within. He passed round the south side of the Cathedral, and 
entered the western door. The building was full of deep gloom 
only pricked here and there by an oil-lamp or two that would 
presently be extinguished when the Cathedral was closed. The 
air was full of a faint sound, made up from echoes of the outside 
world and the footsteps of a few people who still lingered in 
groups here and there in the aisles, and talked among themselves. 
The columns rose up in slender bundles and faded into the pale 


A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY 237 


gloom overhead; as he crossed the nave on the way to Papists’ 
Corner far away to the east rose the dark carving of the stalls 
against the glimmering stone beyond. It was like some vast 
hall of the dead; the noise of the footsteps seemed like an insolent 
intrusion on this temple of silence; and the religious stillness 
had an active and sombre character of its own more eloquent and 
impressive than all the tumult that man could make. 

As Anthony came to Papists’ Corner he saw a very tall solitary 
figure passing slowly from east to west; it was too dark to dis- 
tinguish faces; so he went towards it, so that at the next turn 
they would meet face to face. When he was within two or three 
steps the man before him turned abruptly; and Anthony imme- 
diately put out his hand smiling. 

“Mr. Arthur Oldham,” he said. 

The man started and peered curiously through the gloom 
at him. 

“Why Anthony!” he exclaimed, and took his hand, ‘‘what is 
your business here?” And they began slowly to walk westwards 
together. 

“T am come to meet Mr. Oldham,” he said, “‘and to give him 
a message; and this is it, ‘Come, for all things are now ready!’ ” 

“My dear boy,” said James, stopping short, “you must forgive 
me; but what in the world do you mean by that?” 

“I come from Mr. Roger,” said Anthony, “‘you need not be 
afraid. He has had an accident and sent for me.” 

“Mr. Roger?” said James interrogatively. 

“Yes,” said Anthony, “he hath a patch over one eye; and 
stutters somewhat.” 

James gave a sigh of relief. 

“My dear boy,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough. You 
know what it means then?” 

“Why, yes,” said Anthony. 

“And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop’s household?” 

“Why, yes,” said Anthony, “and a Christian and your 
friend.” 

“God bless you, Anthony,” said the priest; and took his hand 
and pressed it. 

They were passing out now under the west door, and stood 
together for a moment looking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. 
The houses about Amen Court stood up against the sky to their 
right. 

“T must not stay,” said Anthony, “I must fetch my horse and 


238 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


be back at Lambeth for evening prayers at six. He is stabled 
at the Palace here.” 

“Well, well,” said the priest, “I thank God that there are true 
hearts like yours. God bless you again my dear boy—and—and 
make you one of us some day!” 

Anthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude 
and the blessing of this man was dear to him; and after another 
hand grasp, he turned away to the right, leaving the priest still 
half under the shadow of the door looking after him. 

He had done his errand promptly and discreetly. 


CHAPTER VIII - 
THE MASSING—-HOUSE 


NEWMAN’s Court lay dark and silent under the stars on Sunday 
morning a little after four o’clock. The gloomy weather of the 
last three or four days had passed off in heavy battalions of sullen 
sunset clouds on the preceding evening, and the air was full of 
frost. By midnight thin ice was lying everywhere; pendants of 
it were beginning to form on the overhanging eaves; and streaks 
of it between the cobblestones that paved the court. The great 
city lay in a frosty stillness as of death. 

The patrol passed along Cheapside forty yards away from the 
entrance of the court, a little after three o’clock; and a watchman 
had cried out half an hour later, that it was a clear night; and 
then he too had gone his way. The court itself was a little 
rectangular enclosure with two entrances, one to the north be- 
neath the arch of a stable that gave on to Newman’s Passage, 
which in its turn opened on to St. Giles’ Lane that led to 
Cheapside; the other, at the further end of the long right-hand 
side, led by a labyrinth of passages down in the direction of the 
wharfs to the west of London Bridge. ‘There were three houses 
to the left of the entrance from Newman’s Passage; the back of 
a warehouse faced them on the other long side with the door 
beyond; and the other two sides were respectively formed by the 
archway of the stable with a loft over it, and a blank high wall 
at the opposite end. 

A few minutes after four o’clock the figure of a woman sud- 
denly appeared soundlessly in the arch under the stables; and 
after standing there a moment advanced along the front of the 
houses till she reached the third door. She stood here a moment 
in silence, listening and looking towards the doorway opposite, 
and then rapped gently with her finger-nail eleven or twelve times. 
Almost immediately the door opened, showing only darkness 
within; she stepped in, and it closed silently behind her. Then 
the minutes slipped away again in undisturbed silence. At about 
twenty minutes to five the figure of a very tall man dressed as a 


239 


240 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


layman slipped in through the door that led towards the river, 
and advanced to the door where he tapped in the same manner 
as the woman before him, and was admitted at once. After that 
people began to come more frequently, some hesitating and look- 
ing about them as they entered the court, some slipping straight 
through without a pause, and going to the door, which opened 
and shut noiselessly as each tapped and was admitted. Some- 
times two or three would come together, sometimes singly; but by 
five o’clock about twenty or thirty persons had come and been 
engulfed by the blackness that showed each time the door opened; 
while no glimmer of light from any of the windows betrayed the 
presence of any living soul within. At five o’clock the stream 
stopped. The little court lay as silent under the stars again as 
an hour before. It was a night of breathless stillness; there was 
no dripping from the eaves; no sound of wheels or hoofs from 
the city; only once or twice came the long howl of a dog across 
the roofs. 

Ten minutes passed away. 

Then without a sound a face appeared like a pale floating 
patch in the dark door that opened on to the court. It remained 
hung like a mask in the darkness for at least a minute; and then 
a man stepped through on to the cobblestones. Something on his 
head glimmered sharply in the starlight; and there was the same 
sparkle at the end of a pole that he carried in his hands; he turned 
and nodded; and three or four men appeared behind him. 

Then out of the darkness of the archway at the other end of 
the court appeared a similar group. Once a man slipped on the 
frozen stones and cursed under his breath, and the leader turned 
on him with a fierce indrawing of his breath; but no word was 
spoken. 

Then through both entrances streamed dark figures, each with 
a steely glitter on head and breast, and with something that shone 
in their hands; till the little court seemed half full of armed 
men; but the silence was still formidable in its depth. 

The two leaders came together to the door of the third house, 
and their heads were together; and a few sibilant consonants 
escaped them. The breath of the men that stood out under the 
starlight went up like smoke in the air. It was now a quarter- 
past five. 

Three notes of a hand-bell sounded behind the house; and then, 
without any further attempt at silence, the man who had entered 
the court first advanced to the door and struck three or four 


THE MASSING-HOUSE 241 


thundering blows on it with a mace, and shouted in a resonant 
voice: 

“Open in the Queen’s name.” 

The men relaxed their cautious attitudes, and some grounded 
their weapons; others began to talk in low voices; a small party 
advanced nearer their leaders with weapons, axes and halberds, 
uplifted. 

By now the blows were thundering on the door; and the same 
shattering voice cried again and again: 

“Open in the Queen’s name; open in the Queen’s name!” 

The middle house of the three was unoccupied; but the win- 
dows of the house next the stable, and the windows in the loft 
over the archway, where the stable-boys slept, suddenly were 
illuminated; latches were lifted, the windows thrust open and 
heads out of them. 

Then one or two more pursuivants came up the dark passage 
bearing flaming torches with them. A figure appeared on the 
top of the blank wall at the end, and pointed and shouted. The 
stable-boys in a moment more appeared in their archway, and 
one or two persons came out of the house next the stable, queerly 
habited in cloaks and hats over their night-attire. 


The din was now tremendous; the questions and answers 
shouted to and fro were scarcely audible under the thunder that 
pealed from the battered door; a party had advanced to it and 
were raining blows upon the lock and hinges. The court was 
full of a ruddy glare that blazed on the half-armour and pikes 
of the men, and the bellowing and the crashes and the smoke 
together went up into the night air as from the infernal pit. It 
was a hellish transformation from the deathly stillness of a few 
minutes—a massacre of the sweet night silence. And yet the 
house where the little silent stream of dark figures had been | 
swallowed up rose up high above the smoky cauldron, black, dark, 
and irresponsive. 


There rose a shrill howling from behind the house, and the 
figure on the top of the wall capered and gesticulated again. 
Then footsteps came running up the passage, and a pursuivant 
thrust his way through to the leaders; and, in a moment or two, 
above the din a sharp word was given, and three or four men 
hurried out through the doorway by which the man had come. 
Almost at the same moment the hinges of the door gave way, 


242 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the whole crashed inwards, and the attacking party poured into 
the dark entrance hall beyond. By this time the noise had 
wakened many in the houses round, and lights were beginning 
to shine from the high windows invisible before, and a concourse 
of people to press in from all sides. The approaches had all 
been guarded, but at the crash of the door some of the sentries 
round the nearer corners hurried into the court, and the crowd 
poured after them; and by the time that the officers and men 
had disappeared into the house, their places had been filled by 
the spectators, and the little court was again full of a swaying, 
seething, shouting mass of men, with a few women with hoods 
and cloaks among them—inquiries and information were yelled to 
and fro. 

“Tt was a nest of papists—a wasp’s nest was being smoked 
out—what harm had they done?—It was a murder; two women 
had had their throats cut—No, no; it was a Papists’ den—a 
massing-house— Well, God save her Grace and rid her of her 
enemies. With these damned Spaniards everywhere, England 
was going to ruin—They had escaped at the back. No; they 
tried that way, but it was guarded.—There were over fifty Papists, 
some said, in that house——It was a plot. Mary was mixed up 
in it. The Queen was to be blown up with powder, like poor 
Darnley. The barrels were all stored there—No, no, no! it was 
nothing but a massing-house.-—Who was the priest?—Well, they 
would see him at Tyburn on a hurdle; and serve him right with 
his treasonable mummery.—No, no! they had had enough of 
blood.—Campion had died like a man; and an Englishman too— 
praying for his Queen.’’-—The incessant battle and roar went up. 


Meanwhile lights were beginning to shine everywhere in the 
dark house. A man with a torch was standing in a smoky glare 
half way up the stairs seen through the door, and the interior 
of the plain hall was illuminated. Then the leaded panes over- 
head were beginning to shine out. Steel caps moved to and fro; 
gigantic shadows wavered; the shadow of a halberd head went 
across a curtain at one of the lower windows. 

A crimson-faced man threw open a window and shouted in- 
structions to the sentry left at the door, who in answer shook 
his head and pointed to the bellowing crowd; the man at the 
window made a furious gesture and disappeared. The illumina- 
tion began to climb higher and higher as the searchers mounted 
from floor to floor; thin smoke began to go up from one or two 


THE MASSING-HOUSE 243 


of the chimneys in the frosty air;—they were lighting straw to 
bring down any fugitives concealed in the chimneys. Then the 
sound of heavy blows began to ring out; they were testing the 
walls everywhere for hiding-holes; there was a sound of rending 
wood as the flooring was torn up. Then over the parapet against 
the stairs looked a steel-crowned face of a pursuivant. The 
crowd below yelled and pointed at first, thinking he was a fugi- 
tive; but he grinned down at them and disappeared. 

Then at last came an exultant shout; then a breathless silence; 
then the crowd began to question and answer again. 

“They had caught the priest!—No, the priest had escaped, 
—damn him!—It was half a dozen women. No, no! they had 
had the women ten minutes ago in a room at the back—What 
fools these pursuivants were!—They had found the chapel and 
the altar—What a show it would all make at the trial!—Ah! ah! 
it was the priest after all.” 


Those nearest the door saw the man with the torch on the 
stairs stand back a little; and then a dismal little procession 
began to appear round the turn. 

First came a couple of armed men, looking behind them every 
now and then; then a group of half a dozen women, whom they 
had found almost immediately, but had been keeping for the last 
few minutes in a room upstairs; then a couple more men. Then 
there was a little space; and then more constables and more 
prisoners. Each male prisoner was guarded by two men; the 
women were in groups. All these came out to the court. The 
crowd began to sway back against the. walls, pointing and crying 
out; and a lane with living walls was formed towards the archway 
that opened into Newman’s Passage. 

When the last pursuivants who brought up the rear had reached 
the door, an officer, who had been leaning from a first-floor 
window with the pale face of Lackington peering over his shoul- 
der, gave a sharp order; and the procession halted. The women, 
numbering fourteen or fifteen, were placed in a group with some 
eight men in hollow square round them; then came a dozen men, 
each with a pursuivant on either side. But plainly they were not 
all come; they were still waiting for something; the officer and 
Lackington disappeared from the window; and for a moment too, 
the crowd was quiet. 

A murmur of excitement began to rise again, as another group 
was seen descending the stairs within. The officer came first, 


244. BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


looking back and talking as he came; then followed two pur- 
suivants with halberds, and immediately behind them, followed 
by yet two men, walked James Maxwell in crimson vestments all 
disordered, with his hands behind him, and his comely head 
towering above the heads of the guard. The crowd surged for- 
ward, yelling; and the men at the door grounded their halberds 
sharply on the feet of the front row of spectators. As the priest 
reached the door, a shrill cry either from a boy or a woman pierced 
the roaring of the mob. ‘God bless you, father,” and as he heard 
it he turned and smiled serenely. His face was white, and there 
was a little trickle of blood run down across it from some wound 
in his head. The rest of the prisoners turned towards him as he 
came out; and again he smiled and nodded at them. And so the 
Catholics with their priest stood a moment in that deafening 
tumult of revilings, before the officer gave the word to advance. 

Then the procession set forward through the archway; the 
crowd pressing back before them, like the recoil of a wave, and 
surging after them again in the wake. High over the heads of 
all moved the steel halberds, shining like grim emblems of 
power; the torches tossed up and down and threw monstrous 
stalking shadows on the walls as they passed; the steel caps 
edged the procession like an impenetrable hedge; and last moved 
the crimson-clad priest, as if in some church function, but with 
a bristling barrier about him; then came the mob, pouring along 
the narrow passages, jostling, cursing, reviling, swelled every 
moment by new arrivals dashing down the alleys and courts that 
gave on the thoroughfare; and so with tramp and ring of steel 
the pageant went forward on its way of sorrows. 


Before six o’clock Newman’s Court was empty again, except 
for one armed figure that stood before the shattered door of No. 3 
to guard it. Inside the house was dark again except in one 
room high up where the altar had stood. Here the thick curtains 
against the glass. had been torn down, and the window was 
illuminated; every now and again the shadows on the ceiling 
stirred a little as if the candle was being moved; and once the 
window opened and a pale smooth face looked out for a moment, 
and then withdrew again. Then the light disappeared altogether; 
and presently shone out in another room on the same floor; then 
again after an half an hour or so it was darkened; and again 
reappeared on the floor below. And so it went on from room to 
room; until the noises of the waking city began, and the stars 


THE MASSING-HOUSE 245 


paled and expired. Over the smokeless town the sky began to 
glow clear and brilliant. The crowing of cocks awoke here ana 
there; a church bell or two began to sound far away over the 
roofs. The pale blue overhead grew more and more luminous; 
the candle went out on the first floor; the steel-clad man stretched 
himself and looked at the growing dawn. 

A step was heard on the stairs, and Lackington came down, 
carrying a small valise apparently full to bursting. He looked 
paler than usual; and a little hollow-eyed for want of sleep. 
He came out and stood by the soldier, and looked about him. 
Everywhere the court showed signs of the night’s tumult. 
Crumbled ice from broken icicles and trampled frozen pools lay 
powdered on the stones. Here and there on the walls were great 
smears of black from the torches, and even one or two torn bits 
of stuff and a crushed hat marked where the pressure had been 
fiercest. Most eloquent of all was the splintered door behind 
him, still held fast by one stout bolt, but leaning crookedly against 
the dinted wall of the interior. 

“A good night’s work, friend,” said Lackington to the man. 
‘Another hive taken, and here’”—and he tapped his valise—‘‘here 
I bear the best of the honey.” 

The soldier looked heavily at the bag. He was tired too; and 
he did not care for this kind of work. 

“Well,” said Lackington again, “I must be getting home safe. 
Keep the door; you shall be relieved in one hour.” 

The soldier nodded at him; but still said nothing; and Lack- 
ington lifted the valise and went off too under the archway. 


That same morning Lady Maxwell in her room in the Hall 
at Great Keynes awoke early before dawn with a start. She had 
had a dream but could not remember what it was, except that 
her son James was in it, and seemed to be in trouble. He was 
calling on her to save him, she thought, and awoke at the sound 
of his voice. She often dreamt of him at this time; for the life 
of a seminary ,priest was laid with snares and dangers. But this 
dream seemed worse than all. 

She struck a light, and looked timidly round the room; it 
seemed still ringing with his voice. A great tapestry in a frame 
hung over the mantelpiece, Acton followed by his hounds; the 
hunter panted as he ran, and was looking back over his shoulder; 
and. the long-jawed dogs streamed behind him down a little hill. 

So strong was the dream upon the old lady that she felt rest- 


246 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


less, and presently got up and went to the window and opened 
a shutter to look out. A white statue or two beyond the terrace 
glimmered in the dusk, and the stars were bright in the clear 
frosty night overhead. She closed the shutter and went back 
again to bed; but could not sleep. Again and again as she was 
dozing off, something would startle her wide awake again: some- 
times it was a glimpse of James’ face; sometimes he seemed to 
be hurrying away from her down an endless passage with closed 
doors; he was dressed in something crimson. She tried to cry 
out, her voice would not rise above a whisper. Sometimes it was 
the dream of his voice; and once she started up crying out, “I 
am coming, my son.” Then at last she awoke again at the sound 
of footsteps coming along the corridor outside; and stared fear- 
fully at the door to see what would enter. But it was only the 
maid come to call her mistress. Lady Maxwell watched her as 
she opened the shutters that now glimmered through their cracks, 
and let a great flood of light into the room from the clear shining 
morning outside. 

“Tt is a frosty morning, my lady,” said the maid. 

“Send one of the men down to Mistress Torridon,” said Lady 
Maxwell, ‘“‘and ask her to come here as soon as it is convenient. 
Say I am well; but would like to see her when she can come.” 

There was no priest in the house that Sunday, so there could 
be no mass; and on these occasions Mistress Margaret usually 
stayed at the Dower House until after dinner; but this morning 
she came up within half an hour of receiving the message. 

She did not pretend to despise her sister’s terror, or call it 
superstitious. 

“Mary,” she said, taking her sister’s jewelled old fingers into 
her own two hands, ‘‘we must leave all this to the good God. 
It may mean much, or little, or nothing. He only knows; but 
at least we may pray. Let me tell Isabel; a child’s prayers are 
mighty with Him; and she has the soul of a little child still.” 

So Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at 
the Hall and spend the day there; for Lady Maxwell was thor- 
oughly nervous and upset: she trembled at the sound of footsteps, 
and cried out when one of the men came into the room suddenly. 

Isabel went again to evening prayer at three o’clock; but 
could not keep her thoughts off the strange nervous horror at 
the Hall, though it seemed to rest on no better foundation than 
the waking dreams of an old lady—and her mind strayed away 
continually from the darkening chapel in which she sat, so near 


THE MASSING-HOUSE 247 


where Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairs parlour where the 
widow sat shaken and trembling at her own curious fancies about 
her dear son. 

Mr. Bodder’s sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was 
able to get away, and hurry back to the Hall. She found the 
old ladies as she had left them in the little drawing-room, Lady 
Maxwell sitting on the window-seat near the harp, preoccupied 
and apparently listening for something she knew not what. Mi 
tress Margaret was sitting in a tall padded porter’s chair reading 
aloud from an old English mystic, but her sister was paying no 
attention, and looked strangely at the girl as she came in. Isabel 
sat down near the fire and listened; and as she listened the 
memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat 
once before with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress 
Margaret read to them, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; 
and then the sudden clamour from the village. So now she sat 
with terror darkening over her, glancing now and again at that 
white expectant face, and herself listening for the first far-away 
rumour of the dreadful interruption that she now knew must 
come. 

“The Goodness of God,” read the old nun, “is the highest 
prayer, and it cometh down to the lowest part of our need. It 
quickeneth our soul and bringeth it on life, and maketh it for 
to waxen in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature; and readiest 
in grace: for it is the same grace that the soul seeketh, and ever 
shall seek till we know verily that He hath us all in Himself 
enclosed. For he hath no despite of that He hath made, nor 
hath He any disdain to serve us at the simplest office that to our 
body belongeth in nature, for love of the soul that He hath 
made to His own likeness. For as the body is clad in the clothes, 
and the flesh in the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the 
heart in the whole, so are we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness 
of God, and enclosed. Yea, and more homely; for all these may 
waste and wear away, but the Goodness of God is ever whole; 
and more near to us without any likeness; for truly our Lover 
desireth that our soul cleave to Him with all its might, and that 
we be evermore cleaving to His goodness. For of all things that 
heart may think, this most pleaseth God, and soonest speedeth 
us. For our soul is so specially loved of Him that is highest, 
that it overpasseth the knowing of all creatures is 

“Hush,” said Lady Maxwell suddenly, on her feet, with a 
lifted hand. 





248. BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


There was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel’s heart beat 
thick and heavy and her eyes grew large with expectancy; it 
was a windless frosty night again, and the ivy outside on the 
wall, and the laurels in the garden seemed to be silently listen- 
ing too. 

“Mary, Mary,” began her sister, ““you--—”’; but the old lady 
lifted her hand a little higher; and silence fell again. | 

Then far away in the direction of the London road came the 
clear beat of the hoofs of a galloping horse. 

Lady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to 
her side. The other two. stood up and remained still while the 
beat of the hoofs grew and grew in intensity on the frozen road. 

“The front door,” said Lady Maxwell. 

Mistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; 
Isabel took a step or two forward, but was checked by the old 
lady’s uplifted hand again. And again there was a breathless 
silence, save for the beat of the hoofs now close and imminent. 

A moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood 
of cold air swept up the passage; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in 
the hall downstairs, lifted and rattled against the wall. Then 
came the clatter on the paved court; and the sound of a horse 
suddenly checked with the slipping up of hoofs and the jingle 
and rattle of chains and stirrups. There were voices in the hall 
below, and a man’s deep tones; then came steps ascending. 

Lady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, wait- 
ing, and Isabel stared with white face and great open eyes at the 
door; outside, the flame of a lamp on the wall was blowing about 
furiously in the draught. 

Then a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentle- 
man; he bowed to the two ladies, and stood, with the rime on 
his boots and a whip in his hand, a little exhausted and disordered 
by hard riding. 

“Lady Maxwell?” he said. 

Lady Maxwell bowed a little. 

“T come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive 
and well; but he is in trouble. He was taken this morning in 
his mass-vestments; and is in the Marshalsea.” 

Lady Maxwell’s lips moved a little; but no sound came. 

“He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other 
Catholics were taken all together at mass.” 

Then Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard. 

“The friend, sir! What was his name?” 


THE MASSING-HOUSE 249 


“The traitor’s name, madam, is Anthony Norris.” 

The room turned suddenly dark to Isabel’s eyes; and she put 
up her hand and tore at the collar round her throat. 

“Oh no, no, no, no!” she cried, and tottered a step or two 
forward and stood swaying. 

Lady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that 
seemed to see nothing; and her lips stirred again. 

Mistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who 
stood now behind him at the door, came forward to Isabel with 
a little cry, with her hands trembling before her. But before she 
could reach her, Lady Maxwell herself came swiftly forward, her 
head thrown back, and her arms stretched out towards the girl, 
who still stood dazed and swaying more and more. 

“My poor, poor child!” said Lady Maxwell; and caught her 
as she fell. 


CHAPTER IX 
FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 


ANTHONY in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the 
arrest on the Sunday, except a rumour at supper that some Papists 
had been taken. It had sufficient effect on his mind to make 
him congratulate himself that he had been able to warn his friend 
last week. 

At dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among 
them, one Sir Richard Barkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the 
Tower. He sat at the Archbishop’s table, but Anthony’s place, 
on the steward’s left hand, brought him very close to the end 
of the first table where Sir Richard sat. Dinner was half way 
through, when Mr. Scot, who was talking to Anthony, was sud- 
denly silent and lifted his hand as if to check the conversation 
a moment. 

“T saw them myself,” said Sir Richard’s voice just behind. 

‘““What is it?” whispered Anthony. 

“The Catholics,” answered the steward. 

“They were taken in Newman’s Court, off Cheapside,” went 
on the voice, ‘‘nearly thirty, with one of their priests, at mass, 
in his trinkets too—Oldham his name is.” 

There was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and 
Anthony was standing by the officer. 

“Y beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley,” he said;—and a 
dead silence fell in the hall—‘‘But is that the name of the priest 
that was taken yesterday?” 

Sir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this 
young official. 

‘Yes, sir,” he said shortly. 

“Then, then, ” began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low 
to the Archbishop and went straight out of the hall. 





Mr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late 
that night. Anthony’s face was white and distracted; he came 
in and stood by the fire, and stared at him with a dazed air. 

250 


FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 251 


“You are to come to his Grace,” said the steward, looking at 
him in silence. 

Anthony nodded without speaking, and turned away. 

“Then you cannot tell me anything?” said Mr. Scot. The 
other shook his head impatiently, and walked towards the inner 
door. 

The Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young 
officer, as he came in and stood before the table, staring with 
bewildered eyes, with his dress splashed and disordered, and his 
hands still holding the whip and gloves. He made him sit down 
at once, and after Anthony had drunk a glass of wine, he made 
him tell his story and what he had done that day. 

He had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was 
there, and had been examined. Mr. Young had conducted it.— 
The house at Newman’s Court was guarded: the house behind 
Bow Church was barred and shut up, and the people seemed gone 
away.—He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham, though 
he had tried heavy bribery.—And that was all. 

Anthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sen- 
tences; but became more himself as the wine and the fire warmed 
him; and by the time he had finished he had recovered himself 
enough to entreat the Archbishop to help him. 

“Tt is useless,” said the old man. “What can I do? I have 
no power. And—and he is a popish priest! How can I interfere?”’ 

“My lord,” cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, 
“all has been done through treachery. Do you not see it? I 
have been a brainless fool. That man behind Bow Church was a 
spy. For Christ’s sake help us, my lord!” 

Grindal looked into the lad’s great bright eyes; sighed; and 
threw out his hands despairingly. 

“It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will 
tell you all that I can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to 
Sir Francis Walsingham. I was with him abroad as you know, 
in the popish times of Mary: and he is still in some sort a friend 
of mine—but you must remember that he is a strong Protestant; 
and I do not suppose that he will help you. Now go to bed, dear 
lad; you are worn out.” 

Anthony knelt for the old man’s blessing, and left the room. 


The interview next day was more formidable than he had 
expected. He was at the Secretary’s house by ten o’clock, and 
waited below while the Archbishop’s letter was taken up. The 


252 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


servant came back in a few minutes, and asked him to follow; 
and in an agony of anxiety, but with a clear head again this 
morning, and every faculty tense, he went upstairs after him, and 
was ushered into the room where Walsingham sat at a table. 

There was silence as the two bowed, but Sir Francis did not 
offer to rise, but sat with the Archbishop’s letter in his hand, 
glancing through it again, as the other stood. and waited. 

“T understand,” said the Secretary at last, and his voice was 
dry and unsympathetic,—‘‘I understand, from his Grace’s letter, 
that you desire to aid a popish priest called Oldham or Maxwell, 
arrested at mass on Sunday morning in Newman’s Court. If you 
will be so good as to tell me in what way you desire to aid him, 
I can be more plain in my answer. You do not desire, Mr. Norris, 
anything but justice and a fair trial for your friend?” 

Anthony cleared his throat before answering. 

“T—he is my friend, as you say, Sir Francis; and—and he hath 
been caught by foul means. I myself was used, as I have little 
doubt, in his capture. Surely there is no justice, sir, in betraying 
a man by means of his friend.’”” And Anthony described the ruse 
that had brought it all about. 

Sir Francis listened to him coldly; but there came the faintest 
spark of amusement into his large sad eyes. 

“Surely, Mr. Norris,” he said, “it was somewhat simple; and 
I have no doubt at all that it all is as you say; and that the 
poor stuttering cripple with a patch was as sound and had as 
good sight and power of speech as you and I; but the plan was, 
it seems, if you will forgive me, not so simple as yourself. It 
would be passing strange, surely, that the man, if a friend of the 
priest’s, could find no Catholic to take his message; but not at all 
strange if he were his enemy. I do not think sincerely, sir, that 
it would have deceived me. But that is not now the point. He 
is taken now, fairly or foully, and—what was it you wished me 
to do?” 

“T hoped,” said Anthony, in rising indignation at this insolence, 
“that you would help me in some way to undo this foul injustice. 
Surely, sir, it cannot be right to take advantage of such knavish 
tricks.” 

“Good Mr. Norris,” said the Secretary, ‘we are not playing 
a game, with rules that must not be broken, but we are trying 
to serve justice’”—his voice rose a little in sincere enthusiasm— 
“and to put down all false practices, whether in religion or state, 
against God or the prince. Surely the point for you and me is 


THE MASSING-HOUSE 253 


not, ought this gentleman to have been taken in the manner he 
was; but being taken, is he innocent or guilty?” 

“Then you will not help me?” 

“T will certainly not help you to defeat justice,” said the other. 
“Mr. Norris, you are a young man; and while your friendship 
does your heart credit, your manner of forwarding its claims 
does not equally commend your head. I counsel you to be wary 
in your speech and actions; or they may bring you into trouble 
some day yourself. After all, as no doubt your friends have told 
you, you played what, as a minister of the Crown, I must call a 
knave’s part in attempting to save this popish traitor, although 
by God’s Providence, you were frustrated. But it is indeed going 
too far to beg me to assist you. I have never heard of such 
audacity!” 

Anthony left the house in a fury. It was true, as the Arch- 
bishop had said, that Sir Francis Walsingham was a convinced 
Protestant; but he had expected to find in him some indignation 
at the methods by which the priest had been captured; and some 
desire to make compensation for it. 

He went again to the Marshalsea; and now heard that James 
had been removed to the Tower, with one or two of the Catholics 
who had been in trouble before. This was serious news; for to 
be transferred to the Tower was often but the prelude to torture 
or death. He went on there, however, and tried again to gain 
admittance, but it was refused, and the doorkeeper would not 
even consent to take a message in. Mr. Oldham, he said, was 
being straitly kept, and it would be as much as his place was 
worth to admit any communication to him without an order from 
the Council. 

When Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, 
he found an imploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one 
of the grooms from the Hall to take his answer back. 

“Write back at once, dear Anthony,” she wrote, ‘‘and explain 
this terrible thing, for I know well that you could not do what 
has been told us of you. But tell us what has happened, that we 
may know what to think. Poor Lady Maxwell is in distress 
you may imagine; not knowing what will come to Mr. James. 
She will come to London, I think, this week. Write at once now, 
my Anthony, and tell us all.” 

Anthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been de- 
ceived; and asking her to explain the circumstances to Lady 
Maxwell, who no doubt would communicate them to her son as 


254 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


soon as was possible; he added that he had so far failed to get a 
message through the gaoler. He gave the note himself to the 
groom; telling him to deliver it straight into Isabel’s hands, and 
then went to bed. 

In the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken 
place. 

“T feared it would be so,” Grindal said. ‘There is nothing to 
be done but to commit your friend into God’s hands, and leave 
him there.” 

“My Lord,” said Anthony, ‘‘I cannot leave it like that. I will 
go and see my lord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing 
to help, I will even see the Queen’s Grace herself.” 

Grindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay. 

“That will ruin all,” he said. ‘An officer of mine could do 
nothing but anger her Grace.” 

“T must do my best,” said Anthony; “it was through my folly 
he is in prison, and I could never rest if I left one single thing 
undone.” 

Just as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal 
livery dashed up to the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony 
to call him back. The man delivered to him a letter which he 
opened then and there. It was from Mistress Corbet. 

“What can be done,” the letter ran, ‘for poor Mr. James? I 
have heard a tale of you from a Catholic, which I know is a 
black lie. I am sure that even now you will be doing all you 
can to save your friend. I told the man that told me, that he 
lied and that I knew you for an honest gentleman. But come, 
dear Mr. Anthony; and we will do what we can between us. Her 
Grace noticed this morning that I had been weeping; I put her 
off with excuses that she knows to be excuses; and she is so 
curious that she will not rest till she knows the cause. Come 
after dinner to-day; we are at Greenwich now; and we will see 
what may be done. It may even be needful for you to see her 
Grace yourself, and tell her the story. Your loving friend, Mary 
Corbet.” 

Anthony gave a message to the royal groom, to tell Mistress 
Corbet that he would do as she said, and then rode off immedi- 
ately to the city. There was another disappointing delay as the 
Bishop was at Fulham; and thither he rode directly through 
the frosty streets under the keen morning sunshine, fretting at the 
further delay. 

He had often had occasion to see the Bishop before, and 


FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 255 


Aylmer had taken something of a liking to this staunch young 
churchman; and now as the young man came hurrying across 
the grass under the elms, the Bishop, who was walking in his 
garden in his furs and flapped cap, noticed his anxious eyes and 
troubled face, and smiled at him kindly, wondering what he 
had come about. The two began to walk up and down together. 
The sunshine was beginning to melt the surface of the ground, 
and the birds were busy with breakfast-hunting. 

“Look at that little fellow!” cried the Bishop, pointing to a 
thrush on the lawn, “‘he knows his craft.” 

The thrush had just rapped several times with his beak at a 
worm’s earth, and was waiting with his head sideways watching. 

“Aha!” cried the Bishop again, “he has him.” The thrush 
had seized the worm who had come up to investigate the noise, 
and was now staggering backwards, bracing himself, and tugging 
at the poor worm, who, in a moment more was dragged out and 
swallowed. 

“My lord,” said Anthony, “I came to ask your pity for one 
who was betrayed by like treachery.” 

The Bishop looked astonished, and asked for the story; but 
when he heard who it was that had been taken, and under what 
circumstances, the kindliness died out of his eyes. He shook his 
head severely when Anthony had done. 

“Tt is useless coming to me, sir,” he said. ‘You know what I 
think. To be ordained beyond the seas and to exercise priestly 
functions in England is now a crime. It is useless to pretend 
anything else. It is revolt against the Queen’s Grace and the 
peace of the realm. And I must confess I am astonished at you, 
Mr. Norris, thinking that anything ought to be done to shield 
a criminal, and still more astonished that you should think I 
would aid you in that. I tell you plainly that I am glad that 
the fellow is caught, for that I think there will be presently one 
less fire-brand in England. I know it is easy to cry out against 
persecution and injustice; that is ever the shallow cry of the mob; 
but this is not a religious persecution, as you yourself very well 
know. It is because the Roman Church interferes with the peace 
of the realm and the Queen’s authority that its ordinances are 
forbidden; we do not seek to touch a man’s private opinions. 
However, you know all that as well as I.” 

Anthony was raging now with anger. 

“YT am not so sure, my lord, as I was,” he said. “I had hoped 
from your lordship at any rate to find sympathy for the base 


256 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


trick whereby my friend was snared; and I find it now hard to 
trust the judgment of any who do not feel as I do about it.” 
“That is insolence, Mr. Norris,” said Aylmer, stopping in his 
walk and turning upon him his cold half-shut eyes, ‘‘and I will 
not suffer it.” 
“Then, my lord, I had better begone to her Grace at once.” 
“To her Grace!” exclaimed the Bishop. 
“Appello Cesarem,”’ said Anthony, and was gone again. 


As Anthony came into the courtyard of Greenwich Palace an 
hour or two later he found it humming with movement and noise. 
Cooks were going to and fro with dishes, as dinner was only just 
ending; servants in the royal livery were dashing across with 
messages; a few great hounds for the afternoon’s baiting were in 
a group near one of the gateways, snuffing the smell of cookery, 
and howling hungrily now and again. 

Anthony stopped one of the men, and sent him with a message 
to Mistress Corbet; and the servant presently returned, saying 
that the Court was just rising from dinner, and Mistress Corbet 
would see him in a parlour directly, if the gentleman would kindly 
follow him. A groom took his horse off to the stable, and Anthony 
himself followed the servant to a little oak-parlour looking on 
to a lawn with a yew hedge and a dial. He felt as one moving 
in a dream, bewildered by the rush of interviews, and oppressed 
by the awful burden that he bore at his heart. Nothing any 
longer seemed strange; and he scarcely gave a thought to what 
it meant when he heard the sound of trumpets in the court, as 
the Queen left the Hall. In five minutes more Mistress Corbet 
burst into the room; and her anxious look broke into tenderness 
at the sight of the misery in the lad’s face. 

“Oh, Master Anthony,” she cried, seizing his hand, ‘“‘thank God 
you are here. And now what is to be done for him?” 

They sat down together in the window-seat. Mary was dressed 
in an elaborate rose-coloured costume; but her pretty lips were 
pale, and her eyes looked distressed and heavy. 

“Y have hardly slept,” she said, “since Saturday night. Tell 
me all that you know.” 

Anthony told her the whole story, mechanically and miserably. 

“Ah,” she said, “that was how it was. I understand it now. 
And what can we do? You know, of course, that he has been 
questioned in the Tower.” 

Anthony turned suddenly white and sick. 


FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 257 


“Not the—not the ” he began, falteringly. 

She nodded at him mutely with large eyes and compressed lips. 

“Oh, my God,” said Anthony; and then again, “‘O God.” 

She took up one of his brown young hands and pressed it 
gently between her white slender ones. 

“YT know,” she said, “I know; he is a gallant gentleman.” 

Anthony stood up shaking; and sat down again. The horror 
had goaded him into clearer consciousness. 

“Ah! what can we do?” he said brokenly. ‘Let me see the 
Queen. She will be merciful.” 

“You must trust to me in this,” said Mary, ‘‘I know her; and 
I know that to go to her now would be madness. She is in a fury 
with Pinart to-day at something that has passed about the Duke. 
You know Monsieur is here; she kissed him the other day, and 
the Lord only knows whether she will marry him or not. You 
must wait a day or two; and be ready when I tell you.” 

“But,” stammered Anthony, “every hour we wait, he suffers.” 

“Oh, you cannot tell that,” said Mary, “they give them a long 
rest sometimes; and it was only yesterday that he was ques- 
tioned.” 

Anthony sat silently staring out on the fresh lawn; there was 
still a patch of frost under the shadow of the hedge, he noticed. 

“Wait here a moment,” said Mary, looking at him; and she 
got up and went out. 

Anthony still sat staring and thinking of the horror. Pres- 
ently Mary was at his side again with a tall venetian wine-glass 
brimming with white wine. 

“Here,” she said, ‘‘drink this,’—and then—‘have you dined 
to-day?” 

“There was not time,” said Anthony. 

She frowned at him almost fiercely. 

“And you come here fasting,” she said, ‘‘to face the Queen! 
You foolish boy; you know nothing. Wait here,’ she added 
imperiously, and again she left the room. 

Anthony still stared out of doors, twisting the empty glass in 
his hand; until again came her step and the rustle of her dress. 
She took the glass from him and put it down. A servant had 
followed her back into the room in a minute or two with a dish 
of meat and some bread; he set it on the table, and went out. 

“Now,” said Mary, “‘sit down and eat before you speak another 
word.” And Anthony obeyed. The servant presently returned 
with some fruit, and again left them. All the while Anthony was 





258 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


eating, Mary sat by him and told him how she had heard the 
whole story from another Catholic at court; and how the Queen 
had questioned her closely the night before, as to what the marks 
of tears meant on her cheeks. 

“Tt was when I heard of the racking,” explained Mary, “I could 
not help it. I went up to my room and cried and cried. But I 
would not tell her Grace that: it would have been of no use; so 
I said I had a headache; but I said it in such a way as to pre- 
pare her for more. She has not questioned me again to-day; 
she is too full of anger and of the bear-baiting; but she will— 
she will. She never forgets; and then Mr. Anthony, it must be 
you to tell her. You are a pleasant-faced young man, sir, and 
she likes such as that. And you must be both forward and 
modest with her. She loves boldness, but hates rudeness. That 
is why Chris is so beloved by her. He is a fool, but he is a hand- 
some fool, and a forward fool, and withal a tender fool; and sighs 
and cries, and calls her his Goddess; and says how he takes to his 
bed when she is not there, which of course is true. The other 
day he came to her, white-faced, sobbing like a frightened child, 
about the ring she had given Monsieur le petit grenouille. And 
oh, she was so tender with him. And so, Mr. Anthony, you 
must not be just forward with her, and frown at her and call 
her Jezebel and tyrant, as you would like to do; but you must 
call her Cleopatra, and Diana as well. Forward and backward 
all in one; that is the way she loves to be wooed. She is a 
woman, remember that.” 

“JT must just let my heart speak,” said Anthony, “I cannot 
twist and turn.” 

“Ves, yes,” said Mary, “that is what I mean; but mind that 
it is your heart.” 

They went on talking a little longer; when suddenly the 
trumpets pealed out again. Mary rose with a look of con- 
sternation. 

“{ must fly,” she said, “cher Grace will be starting for the pit 
directly; and I must be there. Do you follow, Mr. Anthony; I 
will speak to a servant in the court about you.” And in a 
moment she was gone. 

When Anthony had finished the fruit and wine, he felt con- 
siderably refreshed; and after waiting a few minutes, went out 
into the court again, which he found almost deserted, except for 
a servant or two. One of these came up to him, and said re- 
spectfully that Mistress Corbet had left instructions that Mr. 


FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 259 


Norris was to be taken to the bear-pit; so Anthony followed him 
through the palace to the back. 


It was a Startlingly beautiful sight that his eyes fell upon when 
he came up the wooden stairs on to the stage that ran round 
the arena where the sport was just beginning. It was an amphi- 
theatre, perhaps forty yards across; and the seats round it were 
filled with the most brilliant costumes, many of which blazed with 
jewels. Hanging over the top of the palisade were rich stuffs 
and tapestries. The Queen herself no doubt with Alencon was 
seated somewhere to the right, as Anthony could see by the 
canopy, with the arms of England and France embroidered upon 
its front; but he was too near to her to be able to catch even a 
glimpse of her face or figure. The awning overhead was furled, 
as the day was so fine, and the winter sunshine poured down on 
the dresses and jewels. All the Court was there; and Anthony 
recognised many great nobles here and there in the specially 
reserved seats. A ceaseless clangour of trumpets and cymbals 
filled the air, and drowned not only the conversation but the 
terrific noise from the arena where half a dozen great dogs, furious 
with hunger and excited as much by the crowds and the brazen 
music overhead as by the presence of their fierce adversary, were 
baiting a huge bear chained to a ring in the centre of the sand. 

Anthony’s heart sank a little as he noticed the ladies of the 
Court applauding and laughing at the abominable scene below, 
no doubt in imitation of their mistress who loved this fierce sport; 
and as he thought of the kind of heart to which he would have 
to appeal presently. 

So through the winter afternoon the bouts went on; the band 
answered with harsh chords the death of the dogs one by one, 
and welcomed the collapse of the bear with a strident bellowing 
passage on the great horns and drums; and by the time it was 
over and the spectators rose to their feet, Anthony’s hopes were 
lower than ever. Can there be any compassion left, he wondered, 
in a woman to whom such an afternoon was nothing more than a 
charming entertainment? 

By the time he was able to get out of his seat and return to. 
the courtyard, the procession had again disappeared, but he 
was escorted by the same servant to the parlour again, where 
Mistress Corbet presently rustled in. 

“You must stay to-night,” she said, ‘‘as late as possible. I 
wish you could sleep here; but we are so crowded with these 


260 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Frenchmen and Hollanders that there is not a bed empty. The 
Queen is in better humour, and if the play goes well, it may be 
that a word said even to-night might reach her heart. I will tell 
you when it is over. You must be present. I will send you 
supper here directly.” 

Anthony inquired as to his dress. 

“Nay, nay,” said Mistress Corbet, “that will do very well; it 
is sober and quiet, and a little splashed: it will appear that you 
came in such haste that you could not change it. Her Grace likes 
to see a man hot and in a hurry sometimes; and not always like 
a peacock in the shade—And, Master Anthony, it suits you very 
well.” 

He asked what time the play would be over, and that his 
horse might be saddled ready for him when he should want it; 
and Mary promised to see to it. 

He felt much more himself as he supped alone in the parlour. 
The bewilderment had passed; the courage and spirit of Mary 
had infected his own, and the stirring strange life of the palace 
had distracted him from that dreadful brooding into which he had 
at first sunk. 

When he had finished supper he sat in the window-seat, pon- 
dering and praying too that the fierce heart of the Queen might 
be melted, and that God would give him words to say. 

There was much else too that he thought over, as he sat and 
watched the illuminated windows round the little lawn on which 
his own looked, and heard the distant clash of music from the 
Hall where the Queen was supping in state. He thought of Mary 
and of her gay and tender nature; and of his own boyish love 
_ for her. That indeed had gone, or rather had been transfigured 
into a brotherly honour and respect. Both she and he, he was 
beginning to feel, had a more majestic task before them than 
marrying and giving in marriage. The religion which made this 
woman what she was, pure and upright in a luxurious and 
treacherous Court, tender among hard hearts, sympathetic in the 
midst of selfish lives—this Religion was beginning to draw this 
young man with almost irresistible power. Mary herself was 
doing her part bravely, witnessing in a Protestant Court to the 
power of the Catholic Faith in her own life; and he, what was 
he doing? These last three days were working miracles in him. 
The way he had been received by Walsingham and Aylmer, their 
apparent inability to see his point of view on this foul bit of 
treachery, the whole method of the Government of the day;— 


FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 261 


and above all the picture that was floating now before his eyes 
over the dark lawn, of the little cell in the Tower and the silent 
wrenched figure lying upon the straw—the “gallant gentleman” 
as Mary had called him, who had reckoned all this price up be- 
fore he embarked on the life of a priest, and was even now paying 
it gladly and thankfully, no doubt—all this deepened the previous 
impressions that Anthony’s mind had received; and as he sat 
here amid the stir of the royal palace, again and again a vision 
moved before him, of himself as a Catholic, and perhaps 
But Isabel! What of Isabel? And at the thought of her he 
rose and walked to and fro. 





Presently the servant came again to take Anthony to the 
Presence Chamber, where the play was to take place. 

“T understand, sir, from Mistress Corbet,” said the man, closing 
the door of the parlour a moment, “‘that you are come about 
Mr. Maxwell. I am a Catholic, too, sir, and may I say, sir, 
God biess and prosper you in this—-I—I beg your pardon, sir, 
will you follow me?” 

The room was full at the lower end where Anthony had to 
stand, as he was not in Court dress; and he could see really 
nothing of the play, and hear very little either. The children of 
Paul’s were acting some classical play which he did not know: 
all he could do was to catch a glimpse now and again of the pro- 
truding stage, with the curtains at the back, and the glitter of 
the armour that the boys wore; and hear the songs that were 
accompanied by a little string band, and the clash of the brass 
at the more martial moments. The Queen and the Duke, he could 
see, sat together immediately opposite the stage, on raised seats 
under a canopy; a group of halberdiers guarded them, and 
another small company of them was ranged at the sides of the 
stage. Anthony could see little more than this, and could hear 
only isolated sentences here and there, so broken was the piece 
by the talking and laughing around him. But he did not like 
to move as Mistress Corbet had told him to be present, so he 
stood there listening to the undertone talk about him, and watch- 
ing the faces. What he did see of the play did not rouse him 
to any great enthusiasm. His heart was too heavy with his 
errand, and it seemed to him that the occasional glimpses he 
caught of the stage showed him a very tiresome hero, dressed 
in velvet doublet and hose and steel cap, strangely unconvincing, 
who spoke his lines pompously, and was as unsatisfactory as the 


262 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman of marvellous 
beauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror’s blood 
with passion. 

At last it ended; and an “orator” in apparel of cloth of gold, 
spoke a kind of special epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of 
the Virgin Queen, and then retired bowing. 

Immediately there was a general movement; the brass instru- 
ments began to blare out, and an usher at the door desired those 
who were blocking the way to step aside to make way for the 
Queen’s procession, which would shortly pass out. Anthony 
himself went outside with*one or two more, and then stood aside 
waiting. 

There was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high 
rating woman’s voice, followed by a murmur of laughter. 

In a moment more the door was flung open again, and to 
Anthony’s surprise Mistress Corbet came rustling out, as the 
people stepped back to make room. Her eyes fell on Anthony 
near the door, and she beckoned him to follow, and he went down 
the corridor after her, followed her silently along a passage or 
two, wondering why she did not speak, and then came after her 
into the same little oak parlour where he had supped. A servant 
followed them immediately with lighted candles which he set down 
and retired. 

Anthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her 
pale cheek the fiery mark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw 
too that her eyes were full of tears, and that her breath came 
unevenly. 

“Tt is no use to-night,” she said, with a sob in her voice; “‘her 
Grace is angry with me.” 

‘“‘And, and ” began Anthony in amazement. 

‘“‘And she struck me,” said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. 
“It was all my fault,’—and a bright tear or two ran down on to 
her delicate lace. ‘I was sitting near her Grace, and I could not 
keep my mind off poor James Maxwell; and I suppose I looked 
grave, because when the play was over, she beckoned me up, and— 
and asked how I liked it, and why I looked so solemn—for she 
would know—was it for Scipio Africanus or some other man? And 
—and I was silent; and Alencon, that little frog-man burst out 
laughing and said to her Grace something—something shameful 
—in French—but I understood, and gave him a look; and her 
Grace saw it, and, and struck me here, before all the Court, and 
bade me begone.” 





FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH 263 


“Oh! it is shameful,” said Anthony, furiously, his own eyes 
bright too, at the sight of this gallant girl and her humiliation. 

“You cannot stay here, Mistress Corbet. This is the second 
time at least, is it not?” 

“Ah! but I must stay,” she said, “or who will speak for the 
Catholics? But now it is useless to think of seeing her Grace 
to-night. Yet to-morrow, maybe, she will be sorry,—she often 
is—and will want to make amends; and then will be our time, 
so you must be here to-morrow by dinner-time at least.” 

“Oh, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, “I wish I could do 
something.” 

“You dear lad!” said Mary, and then indeed the tears ran 
down. i 


Anthony rode back to Lambeth under the stars, anxious and 
dispirited, and all night long dreamed of pageants and progresses 
that blocked the street down which he must ride to rescue James. 
The brazen trumpets rang out whenever he called for help or 
tried to explain his errand; and Elizabeth rode by, bowing and 
smiling to all save him. 


The next day he was at Greenwich again by dinner-time, and 
again dined by himself in the oak parlour, waited upon by the 
Catholic servant. He was just finishing his meal when in sailed 
Mary, beaming. 

“IT told you so,” she said delightedly, “‘the Queen is sorry. 
She pinched my ear just now, and smiled at me, and bade me 
come to her in her private parlour in half an hour; and I shall 
put my petition then; so be ready, Master Anthony, be ready 
and of a good courage; for, please God, we shall save him 
yet.” 

Anthony looked at her, white and scared. 

“What shall I say?” he said. 

“Speak from your heart, sir, as you did to me yesterday. Be 
bold, yet not overbold. Tell her plainly that he is your friend; 
and that it was through your action he was betrayed. Say that 
you love the man. She likes loyalty—Say he is a fine upstanding 
fellow, over six feet in height, with a good leg. She likes a good 
leg—Say that he has not a wife, and will never have one. Wives 
and husbands like her not—in spite of le petit grenouille —And 
look straight in her face, Master Anthony, as you looked in mine 
yesterday when I was a cry-baby. She likes men to do that.— 


264 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


And then look away as if dazzled by her radiancy. She likes that 
even more.” 

Anthony looked so bewildered by these instructions that Mary 
laughed in his face. 

“Here then, poor lad,” she said, “I will tell you in a word. 
Tell the truth and be a man;—a man! She likes that best of 
all; though she likes sheep too, such as Chris Hatton, and frogs 
like the Duke, and apes like the little Spaniard, and chattering 
, like 
Walsingham. But do you be a man and risk it. I know you can 
manage that.” And Mary smiled at him so cheerfully, that 
Anthony felt heartened. 

“There,” she said, “now you look like one. But you must 
have some more wine first, I will send it in as I go. And now I 
must BO Wait here for the message.”” She gave him her hand, 
and he kissed it, and she went out, nodding and smiling over her 
shoulder. 

Anthony sat miserably on the window-seat. 

Ah! so much depended on him now. The Queen was in a good 
humour, and such a chance might never occur again;—and mean- 
time James Maxwell waited in the Tower. 

The minutes passed; steps came and went in the passage out- 
side; and Anthony’s heart leaped into his mouth at each sound. 
Once the door opened, and Anthony sprang to his feet trembling. 
But it was only the servant with the wine. Anthony took it— 
a fiery Italian wine, and drew a long draught that sent his blood 
coursing through his veins, and set his heart a-beating strongly 
again. And even as he set the cup down, the door was open 
again, and a bowing page was there. 

“May it please you, sir, the Queen’s Grace has sent me for 
you.” 

Anthony got up, swallowed in his throat once or twice, and 
motioned to go; the boy went out and Anthony followed. 

They went down a corridor or two, passing a sentry who let 
the well-known page and the. gentleman pass without challenging; 
ascended a twisted oak staircase, went along a gallery, with 
stained glass of heraldic emblems in the windows, and paused 
before a door. The page, before knocking, turned and looked 
meaningly at Anthony, who stood with every pulse in his body 
racing; then the boy knocked, opened the door; Anthony entered, 
and the door closed behind him. 





CHAPTER X 
THE APPEAL TO CAESAR 


THE room was full of sunshine that poured in through two tall 
windows opposite, upon a motionless figure that sat in a high 
carved chair by the table, and watched the door. This figure 
dominated the whole room: the lad as he dropped on his knees, 
was conscious of eyes watching him from behind the chair, of 
tapestried walls, and a lute that lay on the table, but all those 
things were but trifling accessories to that scarlet central figure 
with a burnished halo of auburn hair round a shadowed face. 


There was complete silence for a moment or two; a hound 
bayed in the court outside, and there came a far-away bang of 
a door somewhere in the palace. There was a rustle of silk that 
set every nerve of his body thrilling, and then a clear hard pene- 
trating voice spoke two words. 

Well, sir?” 

Anthony drew a breath, and swallowed in his throat. 

“Your Grace,” he said, and lifted his eyes for a moment, and 
dropped them again. But in the glimpse every detail stamped 
itself clear on his imagination. There she sat in vivid scarlet and 
cloth of gold, radiating light; with high puffed sleeves; an im- 
mense ruff fringed with lace. The narrow eyes were fixed on him, 
and as he now waited again, he knew that they were running up 
and down his figure, his dark splashed hose and his tumbled 
doublet and ruff. 

“Vou come strangely dressed.” 

Anthony drew a quick breath again. 

““My heart is sick,” he said. 

There was another slight movement. 

“Well, sir,” the voice said again, “you have not told us why 
you are here.” 

“For justice from my queen,” he said, and stopped. ‘And for 
mercy from a woman,” he added, scarcely knowing what he said. 

Again Elizabeth stirred in her chair. 

265 


266 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“You taught him that, you wicked girl,” she said. 

“No, madam,” came Mary’s voice from behind, subdued and 
entreating, ‘‘it is his heart that speaks.” 

“Enough, sir,” said Elizabeth; “now tell us plainly what you 
want of us.” 

Then Anthony thought it time to be bold. He made a great 
effort, and the sense of constraint relaxed a little. 

“T have been, your Grace, to Sir Francis Walsingham, and my 
lord Bishop of London, and I can get neither justice nor mercy 
from either; and so I come to your Grace, who are their mistress, 
to teach them manners.” 

“Stay,” said Elizabeth, ‘‘that is insolence to my ministers.” 

“So my lord said,” answered Anthony frankly, looking into 
that hard clear face that was beginning to be lined with age. 
And he saw that Elizabeth smiled, and that the face behind the 
chair nodded at him encouragingly. 

“Well, insolence, go on.’ 

“Tt is on behalf of one who has been pronounced a felon and a 
traitor by your Grace’s laws, that I am pleading; but one who is 
a very gallant Christian gentleman as well.” 

“Vour friend lacks not courage,” interrupted Elizabeth to 
Mary. 

“No, your Grace,” said the other, ‘‘that has never been consid- 
ered his failing.” 

Anthony waited, and then the voice spoke again harshly. 

“Go on with the tale, sir. I cannot be here all day.” 

“‘He is a popish priest, your Majesty; and he was taken at mass 
in his vestments, and is now in the Tower; and he hath been ques- 
- tioned on the rack. And, madam, it is piteous to think of it. 
He is but a young man still, but passing strong and tall.” 

“What has this to do with me, sir?” interrupted the Queen 
harshly. ‘I cannot pardon every proper young priest in the 
kingdom. What else is there to be said for him?” 

“Ale was taken through the foul treachery of a spy, who im- 
posed upon me, his friend, and caused me all unknowing to say 
the very words that brought him into the net.” 

And then, more and more, Anthony began to lose his self- 
consciousness, and poured out the story from the beginning; tell- 
ing how he had been brought up in the same village with James 
Maxwell; and what a loyal gentleman he was; and then the story 
of the trick by which he had been deceived. As he spoke his 
whole appearance seemed to change; instead of the shy and 


THE APPEAL TO C/AKSAR 267 


rather clumsy manner with which he had begun, he was now 
natural and free; he moved his hands in slight gestures; his blue 
eyes looked the Queen fairly in the face; he moved a little for- 
ward on his knees as he pleaded, and he spoke with a passion 
that astonished both Mary and himself afterwards when he 
thought of it, in spite of his short and broken sentences. He was 
conscious all the while of an intense external strain and pressure, 
as if he were pleading for his life, and the time was short. 
Elizabeth relaxed her rigid attitude, and leaned her chin on her 
hand and her elbow on the table and watched him, her thin lips 
parted, the pearl rope and crown on her head, and the pearl 
pendants in her ears moving slightly as she nodded at points in 
his story. 

“Ah! your Grace,” he cried, lifting his open hands towards 
her a little, ““you have a woman’s heart; all your people say so. 
You cannot allow this man to be so trapped to his death! 
Treachery never helped a cause yet. If your men cannot catch 
these priests fairly, then a-God’s name, let them not catch them 
at all! But to use a friend, and make a Judas of him; to make 
the very lips that have spoken friendly, speak traitorously; to 
bait the trap like that—it is devilish. Let him go, let him go, 
madam! One priest more or less cannot overthrow the realm; 
but one more foul crime done in the name of justice can bring 
God’s wrath down on the nation. I hold that a trick like that is 
far worse than all the disobedience in the world; nay—how can 
we cry out against the Jesuits and the plotters, if we do worse 
ourselves? Madam, madam, let him go! Oh! J know I cannot 
speak as well in this good cause, as some can in a bad cause, but 
let the cause speak for itself. I cannot speak, I know.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Elizabeth softly, “you wrong yourself. You 
have an honest face, sir; and that is the best recommendation 
to me. 

‘“‘And so, Minnie,” she went on, turning to Mary, ‘“‘this was 
your petition, was it; and this your advocate? Well, you have 
not chosen badly. Now, you speak yourself.” 

Mary stood a moment silent, and then with a swift movement 
came round the arm of the Queen’s chair, and threw herself on 
her knees, with her hands upon the Queen’s left hand as it lay 
upon the carved boss, and her voice was as Anthony had never 
yet heard it, vibrant and full of tears. 

“Oh! madam, madam; this poor lad cannot speak, as he says; 
and yet his sad honest face, as your Grace said, is more eloquent 


268 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


than all words. And think of the silence of the little cell upstairs 
in the Tower; where a gallant gentleman lies, all rent and tom 
with the rack; and,—and how he listens for the footsteps outside 
of the tormentors who come to drag him down again, all aching 
and heavy with niap, down to that fierce engine in the dark. 
And think of his gallant heart, your Grace, how brave it is; and 
how he will not yield nor let one name escape him. Ah! not 
because he loves not your Grace nor desires to serve you; but 
because he serves your Grace best by serving and loving his God 
first of all—And think how he cannot help a sob now and again; 
and whispers the name of his Saviour, as the pulleys begin to 
wrench and twist——And,—and,—do not forget his mother, your 
Grace, down in the country; how she sits and listens and prays 
for her dear son; and cannot sleep, and dreams of him when at 
last she sleeps, and wakes screaming and crying at the thought of 
the boy she bore and nursed in the hands of those harsh devils. 
And—and, you can stop it all, your Grace, with one little word; 
and make that mother’s heart bless your name and pray for you 
night and morning till she dies;—and let that gallant son go 
free, and save his racked body before it be torn asunder;—and 
you can make this honest lad’s heart happy again with the thought 
that he has saved his friend instead of slaying him. Look you, 
madam, he has come confessing his fault; saying bravely to your 
Grace that he did try to do his friend a service in spite of the 
laws, for that he held love to be the highest law. Ah! how many 
happy souls you can make with a word; because you are a Queen. 
—What is it to be a Queen!—to be able to do all that!—Oh! 
madam, be pitiful then, and show mercy as one day you hope 
to find it.” 

Mary spoke with an intense feeling; her voice was one long 
straining sob of appeal; and as she ended her tears were begin- 
ning to rain down on the hand she held between her own; she 
lifted it to her streaming face and kissed it again and again; 
and then dropped her forehead upon it, and so rested in 
dead silence. 

Elizabeth swallowed in her throat once or twice; and then 
spoke, and her voice was a little choked. 

“Well, well, you silly girl—You plead too well.” 

Anthony irresistiby threw his hands out as he knelt. 

“Oh! God bless your Grace!” he said; and then gave a sob or 
two himself. 

“There, there, you are a pair of children,” she said; for Mary 


THE APPEAL TO C&SAR 269 


was kissing her hand again and again. “And you are a pretty 
pair, too,” she added. ‘“‘Now, now, that is enough, stand up.” 

Anthony rose to his feet again and stood there; and Mary went 
round again behind the chair. 

‘““Now, now, you have put me in a sore strait,” said Elizabeth; 
“between you I scarcely know how to keep my word. They call 
me fickle enough already. But Frank Walsingham shall do it 
for me. He is certainly at the back of it all, and he shall manage 
it. It shall be done at once. Calla page, Minnie.” 

Mary Corbet went to the back of the room into the shadow, 
opened a door that Anthony had not noticed, and beckoned 
sharply; in a moment or two a page was bowing before Elizabeth. 

“Ts Sir Francis Walsingham in the palace?” she asked,—‘‘then 
bring him here,” she ended, as the boy bowed again. 

‘“‘And you too,” she went on, ‘“‘shall hear that I keep my word,” 
—she pointed towards the door whence the page had come.— 
‘Stand there,” she said, ‘‘and leave the door ajar.” 

Mary gave Anthony her hand and a radiant smile as they went 
together. 

“Aha!” said Elizabeth, “not in my presence.” 

Anthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy. 


They went in through the door, and found themselves in a 
tiny panelled room with a little slit of a window; it was used to 
place a sentry or a page within it. There were a couple of chairs, 
and the two sat down to wait. 

“Oh, thank God!” whispered Anthony. 

Again the harsh voice rang out from the open door. 

“Now, now, no love-making within there!” 

Mary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came 
the ripple of a lute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. 
Mary smiled again and nodded at Anthony. Then, a metallic 
voice, but clear enough and tuneful, began to sing a verse of the 
little love-song of Harrington’s, Whence comes my love? 

It suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice 
cried to some one to come in. 

Anthony could hear the door open and close apain, and a 
movement or two, which doubtless represented Walsingham’s 
obeisance. Then the Queen’s voice began again, low, thin, and 
distinct. The two in the inner room listened breathlessly. 

“J wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; 
without any talk or to-do. And I desire you to do it for me.” 


270 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


There was silence, and then Walsingham’s deep tones. 

‘Your Grace has but to command.” 

“Fis name is James Maxwell, and he is a popish priest.” 

A longer silence followed. 

“T do not know if your Grace knows all the circumstances.” 

‘I do, sir, or I should not interfere.” 

“The feeling of the people was very strong.” 

“Well, and what of that?” 

“Tt will be a risk of your Grace’s favour with them.” 

“Have I not said that my name was not to appear in the 
matter? And do you think I fear my people’s wrath?” 

There was silence again. 

“Well, Sir Francis, why do you not speak?” 

“T have nothing to say, your Grace.” 

“Then it will be done?” 

“T do not see at present how it can be done, but doubtless 
there is a way.” 

“Then you will find it, sir, immediately,” rang out the Queen’s 
metallic tones. 

(Mary turned and nodded solemnly at Anthony, with pursed 
lips. ) 

“Ale was questioned on the rack two days ago, your Grace.” 

“Have I not said I know all the circumstances? Do you wish 
me to say it again?” 

The Queen was plainly getting angry. 

“T ask your pardon, madam; but I only meant that he could ~ 
not travel probably, yet awhile. He was on the rack for four 
hours, I understand.” 

(Anthony felt that strange sickness rise again; but Mary laid 
her cool hand on his and smiled at him.) 

“Well, well,’ rasped out Elizabeth, “I do not ask impossi- 
bilities.” 

“They would cease to be so, madam, if you did.” 

(Mary within the little room put her lips to Anthony’s ear: 

“Butter!” she whispered. ) 

“Well, sir,’ went on the Queen, ‘‘you shall see that he has a 
physician, and leave to travel as soon as he will.” 

“Tt shall be done, your Grace.” 

“Very well, see to it.” 

“T beg your Grace’s pardon; but what——’ 

“Well, what is it now?” 

“Tf would wish to know your Grace’s pleasure as to the future 


} 


THE APPEAL TO CAESAR 271 


for Mr. Maxwell. Is no pledge of good behaviour to be exacted 
from hime” 

“Of course he says mass again at his peril. Either he must 
take the oath at once, or he shall be allowed forty-eight hours’ 
safe-conduct with his papers for the Continent.” 

“Vour Grace, indeed I must remonstrate——” 

Then the Queen’s wrath burst out; they heard a swift move- 
ment, and the rap of her high heels as she sprang to her feet. 

“By God’s Son,” she screamed, “am I Queen or not? I have 
had enough of your counsel. You presume, sir—’ her ringed 
hand came heavily down on the table and they heard the lute 
leap and fall again——“‘You presume on your position, sir. I made 
you, and I can unmake you, and by God I will, if I have another 
word of your counselling. Be gone, and see that it be done; 
I will not bid twice.” 

There was silence again; and they heard the outer door open 
and close. 

Anthony’s heart was beating wildly. He had sprung to his 
feet in a trembling excitement as the Queen had sprung to hers. 
The mere ring of that furious royal voice, even without the sight 
of her pale wrathful face and blazing eyes that Walsingham looked 
upon as he backed out from the presence, was enough to make 
this lad’s whole frame shiver. Mary apparently was accustomed 
to this; for she looked up at Anthony, laughing silently, and 
shrugged her shoulders. 

Then they heard the Queen’s silk draperies rustle and her pearls 
chink together as she sank down again and took up her lute 
and struck the strings. Then the metallic voice began again, 
with a little tremor in it, like the ground-swell after a storm; and 
she sang the verse through in which she had been interrupted: 





“Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 

Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek— 
Yet not a heart to save my pain; 

O Venus, take thy gifts again! 

Make not so fair to cause our moan, 

Or make a heart that’s like your own.” 


The lute rippled away into silence. 


Mary rose quietly to her feet and nodded to Anthony. 
“Come back, you two!” cried the Queen. 
Mary stepped straight through, the lad behind her. 


272 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Well,” said the Queen, turning to them and showing her black 
teeth in a smile. ‘Have I kept my word?” 

“Ah! your Grace,” said Mary, curtseying to the ground, “you 
have made some simple loving hearts very happy to-day—I do 
not mean Sir Francis’.” 

The Queen laughed. 

“Come here, child,” she said, holding out her glittering hand, 
“down here,” and Mary sank down on the Queen’s footstool, and 
leaned against her knee like a child, smiling up into her face; 
while Elizabeth put her hand under her chin and kissed her twice 
on the forehead. ! 

“There, there,’ she said caressingly, “have I made amends? 
Am I a hard mistress?” 

And she threw her left hand round the girl’s neck and began 
to play with the diamond pendant in her ear, and to stroke the 
smooth curve of her cheek with her flashing fingers. 

Anthony, a little on one side, stood watching and wondering 
at this silky tigress who raged so fiercely just now. 

Elizabeth looked up in a moment and saw him. 

‘Why, here is the tall lad here still,” she said, “eyeing us as if 
we were monsters. Have you never yet seen two maidens loving 
one another, that you stare so with your great eyes? Aha! 
Minnie; he would like to be sitting where I am—is it not so, sir?” 

“YT would sooner stand where I am, madam,” said Anthony, by 
a sudden inspiration, “and look upon your Grace.” 

‘Why, he is a courtier already,” said the Queen. “You have 
been giving him lessons, Minnie, you sly girl.” 

“A loyal heart makes the best courtier, madam,” said Mary, 
taking the Queen’s hand delicately in her own. 

“And next to looking upon my Grace, Mr. Norris,” said Eliza- 
beth, ‘“‘what do you best love?” 

“Listening to your Grace,” said Anthony, promptly. 

Mary turned and flashed all her teeth upon him in a smile, 
and her eyes danced in her head. 

Elizabeth laughed outright. 

“He is an apt pupil,” she said to Mary. 

“You mean the lute, sir?” she added. 

“TI mean your Grace’s voice, madam. I had forgotten the lute.” 

“Ah, a little clumsy!” said the Queen; ‘‘not so true a thrust as 
the others.” 

“Tt was not for lack of good-will,” said poor Anthony blushing 
a little. He felt in a kind of dream, fencing in language with 


THE APPEAL TO CAESAR 273 


this strange mighty creature in scarlet and pearls, who sat up 
in her chair and darted remarks at him, as with a rapier. 

“Aha!” said the Queen, ‘he is blushing! Look Minnie!” 
Mary looked at him deliberately. Anthony became scarlet at 
once; and tried a desperate escape. 

“Tt is your livery, madam,” he said. 

Mary clapped her hands, and glanced at the Queen. 

“Yes, Minnie; he does his mistress credit.” 

“Yes, your Grace; but he can do other things besides talk,” 
explained Mary. 

Anthony felt like a horse being shown off by a skilful dealer, 
but he was more at his ease too after his blush. 

“Extend your mercy, madam,” he said, “and bid Mistress 
Corbet hold her tongue and spare my shame.” 

“Silence, sir!’’? said the Queen. ‘Go on, Minnie; what else 
can he do?” 

“Ah! your Grace, he can hawk. Oh! you should see his pere- 
grine;—named after your Majesty. That shows his loyal heart.” 

“{ am not sure of the compliment,” said the Queen; ‘‘hawks 
are fierce creatures.” 

“Tt was not for her fierceness,’’ put in Anthony, “that I named 
her after your Grace.” 

“Why, then, Mr. Norris?” 

“For that she soars so high above all other creatures,” said the 
lad, ‘“and—and that she never stoops but to conquer.” 

Mary gave a sudden triumphant laugh, and glanced up, and 
Elizabeth tapped her on the cheek sharply. 

“Be still, bad girl,” she said. “You must not prompt during 
the lesson.” 

And so the taik went on. Anthony really acquitted himself 
with great credit, considering the extreme strangeness of his 
position; but such an intense weight had been lifted off his mind 
by the Queen’s pardon of James Maxwell, that his nature was 
alight with a kind of intoxication. 

All his sharpness, such as it was, rose to the surface; and Mary 
too was amazed at some of his replies. Elizabeth took it as a 
matter of course; she was accustomed to this kind of word- 
fencing; she did not do it very well herself: her royalty gave 
her many advantages which she often availed herself of; and 
her address was not to be compared for a moment with that of 
some of her courtiers and ladies. But still she was amused by 
this slender honest lad who stood there before her in his grace- 


274 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


ful splashed dress, and blushed and laughed and parried, and 
delivered his point with force, even if not with any extraordinary 
skill. 

But at last she began to show signs of weariness; and Mary 
managed to convey to Anthony that it was time to be off. So 
he began to make his adieux. 

“Well,”’ said Elizabeth, “let us see you at supper to-night; and 
in the parlours afterwards—Ah!” she cried, suddenly, “neither 
of you must say a word as to how your friend was released. It 
must remain the act of the Council. My name must not appear; 
Walsingham will see to that, and you must see to it too.” 

They both promised sincerely. 

“Well, then, lad,” said Elizabeth, and stretched out her hand; 
and Mary rose and stood by her. Anthony came up and knelt on 
the cushion and received the slender scented ringed hand on his 
own, and kissed it ardently in his gratitude. As he released it, 
it cuffed him gently on the cheek. 

“There, there!” said Elizabeth, ‘“Minnie has taught you too 
much, it seems.” 

Anthony backed out of the presence, smiling; and his last 
glimpse was once more of the great scarlet-clad figure with the 
slender waist, and the priceless pearls, and the haze of muslin 
behind that crowned auburn head, and the pale oval face smiling 
at him with narrow eyes—and all in a glory of sunshine. 


He did not see Mary Corbet again until evening as she was 
with the Queen all the afternoon. Anthony would have wished 
to return to Lambeth; but it was impossible, after the command 
to remain at supper; so he wandered down along the river bank, 
rejoicing in the success of his petition; and wondering whether 
James had heard of his release yet. 

Of course it was just a fly in the ointment that his own agency 
in the matter could never be known. It would have been at 
least some sort of compensation for his innocent share in the 
whole matter of the arrest. However, he was too happy to feel 
the sting of it. He felt, of course, greatly drawn to the Queen 
for her ready clemency; and yet there was something repellent 
about her too in spite of it. He felt in his heart that it was 
just a caprice, like her blows and caresses; and then the assump- 
tion of youth sat very ill upon this lean middle-aged woman. 
He would have preferred less lute-playing and sprightly innuendo, 
and more tenderness and gravity. 


THE APPEAL TO CAESAR iy 


Mary had arranged that a proper Court-suit should be at his 
disposal for supper, and a room to himself; so after he had re- 
turned at sunset, he changed his clothes. The white silk suit 
with the high hosen, the embroidered doublet with great puffed 
and slashed sleeves, the short green-lined cloak, the white cap 
and feather, and the slender sword with the jewelled hilt, all 
became him very well; and he found too that Mary had provided 
him with two great emerald brooches of her own, that he pinned 
on, one at the fastening of the crisp ruff and the other on his cap. 

He went to the private chapel for the evening prayer at half- 
past six; which was read by one of the chaplains; but there were 
very few persons present, and none of any distinction. Re- 
ligion, except as a department of politics, was no integral part 
of Court life. The Queen only occasionally attended evening- 
prayer on week days; and just now she was too busy with the 
affair of the Duke of Alencon to spend unnecessary time in that 
manner. 

When the evening prayer was over he followed the little com- 
pany into the long gallery that led towards the hall, through 
which the Queen’s procession would pass to supper; and there 
he attached himself to a group of gentlemen, some of whom he 
had met at Lambeth. While they were talking, the clang of 
trumpets suddenly broke out from the direction of the Queen’s 
apartments; and all threw themselves on their knees and re- 
mained there. The doors were flung open by servants stationed 
behind them; and the wands advanced leading the procession; 
then came the trumpeters blowing mightily, with a drum or two 
beating the step; and then in endless profusion, servants and 
guards; gentlemen pensioners magnificently habited, for they were 
continually about the Queen’s person; and at last, after an official 
or two bearing swords, came the Queen and Alencon together; 
she in a superb purple toilet with brocaded underskirt and high- 
heeled twinkling shoes, and breathing out essences as she swept 
by smiling; and he, a pathetic little brown man, pock-marked, 
with an ill-shapen nose and a head too large for his undersized 
body, in a rich velvet suit sparkling all over with diamonds. 

As they passed Anthony he heard the Duke making some 
French compliment in his croaking harsh voice. Behind came 
the crowd of ladies, nodding, chattering, rustling; and Anthony 
had a swift glance of pleasure from Mistress Corbet as she went 
by, talking at the top of her voice. 

The company followed on to the hall, behind the distant 


276 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


trumpets, and Anthony found himself still with his friends some- 
where at the lower end—away from the Queen’s table, who sat 
with Alencon at her side on a dais, with the great folks about 
her. All through supper the most astonishing noise went on. 
Every one was talking loudly; the servants ran to and fro over 
the paved floor; there was the loud clatter over the plates of 
four hundred persons; and, to crown all, a band in the musicians’ 
gallery overhead made brazen music all supper-time. Anthony 
had enough entertainment himself in looking about the great 
banqueting-hall, so magnificently adorned with tapestries and 
armour and antlers from-the park; and above all by the blaze of 
gold and silver plate both on the tables and on the sideboards; 
and by watching the army of liveried servants running to and 
fro incessantly; and the glowing colours of the dresses of the 
guests. 

Supper was over at last; and a Latin grace was exquisitely 
sung in four parts by boys and men stationed in the musicians’ 
gallery; and then the Queen’s procession went out with the same 
ceremony as that with which it had entered. Anthony followed 
behind, as he had been bidden by the Queen to the private par- 
lours afterwards; but he presently found his way barred by a 
page at the foot of the stairs leading to the Queen’s apartments. 

It was in vain that he pleaded his invitation; it was useless, 
as the young gentleman had not been informed of it. Anthony 
asked if he might see Miss Corbet. No, that too was impossible; 
she was gone upstairs with the Queen’s Grace and might not be 
disturbed. Anthony, in despair, not however unmixed with 
relief at escaping a further ordeal, was about to turn away, leav- 
ing the officious young gentleman swaggering on the stairs like 
a peacock, when down came Mistress Corbet herself, sailing down 
in her splendour, to see what was become of the gentleman of 
the Archbishop’s house. 

“Why, here you are!” she cried from the landing as she came 
down, “and why have you not obeyed the Queen’s command?” 

“This young gentleman,” said Anthony, indicating the aston- 
ished page, “would not let me proceed.” 

“Tt is unusual, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, ‘‘for her Grace’s 
guests to come without my having received instructions, unless 
they are great folk.” 

Mistress Corbet came down the last six steps like a stooping 
hawk, her wings bulged behind her; and she caught the boy one 
clean light cuff on the side of the head. 


THE APPEAL TO CESAR 277 


“You imp!” she said, “daring to doubt the word of this gentle- 
man. And the Queen’s Grace’s own special guest!” 

The boy tried still to stand on his dignity and bar the way, 
but it was difficult to be dignified with a ringing head and a 
scarlet ear. 

“Stand aside,” said Mary, stamping her little buckled foot, 
“this instant; unless you would be dragged by your red ear 
before the Queen’s Grace. Come, Master Anthony.” 

So the two went upstairs together, and the lad called up after 
them bitterly: 

“J beg your pardon, Mistress; I did not recognise he was 
your gallant.” 

“Vou shall pay for that,” hissed Mary over the banisters. 

They went along a passage or two, and the sound of a voice 
singing to a virginal began to ring nearer as they went, followed 
by a burst of applause. 

“Lady Leicester,’’ whispered Mary; and then she opened the 
door and they went in. 

There were three rooms opening on one another with wide 
entrances, so that really one long room was the result. They 
were all three fairly full; that into which they entered, the first 
in the row, was occupied by some gentlemen-pensioners and ladies 
talking and laughing; some playing shove-groat, and some of 
them still applauding the song that had just ended. The middle 
room was much the same; and the third, which was a step higher 
than the others, was that in which was the Queen, with Lady 
Leicester and a few more. Lady Leicester had just finished a 
song, and was laying her virginal down. ‘There was a great fire 
burning in the middle room, with seats about it, and here Mary 
Corbet brought Anthony. Those near him eyed him a little; 
but his companion was sufficient warrant of his respectability; 
and they soon got into talk, which was suddenly interrupted by 
the Queen’s voice from the next room. 

“Minnie, Minnie, if you can spare a moment from your lad, 
come and help us at a dance.” 

The Queen was plainly in high good-humour; and Mary got 
up and went into the Queen’s room. Those round the fire stood 
up and pushed the seats back, and the games ceased in the 
third room; as her Grace needed spectators and applause. 

Then there arose the rippling of lutes from the ladies in the 
next room, in slow swaying measure, with the gentle tap of a 
drum now and again; and the pavane began—a stately dignified 


278 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


dance; and among all the ladies moved the great Queen herself, 
swaying and bending with much grace and dignity. It was the 
strangest thing for Anthony to find himself here, a raven among 
all these peacocks, and birds of paradise; and he wondered at 
himself and at the strange humour of Providence, as he watched 
the shimmer of the dresses and the sparkle of the shoes and 
jewels, and the soft clouds of muslin and lace that shivered and 
rustled as the ladies stepped; the firelight shone through the 
wide doorway on this glowing movement, and groups of candles 
in sconces within the room increased and steadied the soft in- 
tensity of the light. The soft tingling instruments, with the 
slow tap-tap marking the measure like a step, seemed a transla- 
tion into chord and melody of this stately tender exercise. And 
so this glorious flower-bed, loaded too with a wealth of essences 
in the dresses and the sweet-washed gloves, swayed under the 
wind of the music, bending and rising together in slow waves 
and ripples. Then it ceased; and the silence was broken by a 
quick storm of applause; while the dancers waited for the lutes. 
Then all the instruments broke out together in quick triple time; 
the stringed instruments supplying a hasty throbbing accom- 
paniment, while the shrill flutes began to whistle and the drums 
to gallop;—there was yet a pause in the dance, till the Queen 
made the first movement;—and then the whole whirled off on 
the wings of a coranto. 

It was bewildering to Anthony, who had never even dreamed 
of such a dance before. He watched first the lower line of the 
shoes; and the whole floor, in reality above, and in the mirror 
of the polished boards below, seemed scintillating in lines of 
diamond light; the heavy underskirts of brocade, puffed satin, 
and cloth of gold, with glimpses of foamy lace beneath, whirled 
and tossed above these flashing vibrations. Then he looked at 
the higher strata, and there was a tossing sea of faces and white 
throats, borne up as it seemed—now revealed, now hidden—on 
clouds of undulating muslin and lace, with sparkles of precious 
stones set in ruff and wings and on high piled hair. 

He watched, fascinated, the faces as they appeared and van- 
ished; there was every imaginable expression; the serious looks 
of one who took dancing as a solemn task, and marked her posi- 
tion and considered her steps; the wild gaiety of another, all 
white teeth and dimples and eyes, intoxicated by movement and 
music and colour, as men are by wine, and guided and sustained 
by the furious genius of the dance, rather than by intention of 


THE APPEAL TO CAESAR 279 


any kind. There was the courtly self-restraint of one tall beauty, 
who danced as a pleasant duty and loved it, but never lost con- 
trol of her own bending, slender grace; ah! and there was the 
oval face crowned with auburn hair and pearls, the lower lip 
drawn up under the black teeth with an effort, till it appeared 
to snarl, and the ropes of pearls leaping wildly on her lean purple 
stomacher. And over all the grave oak walls and the bright 
sconces and the taper flames blown about by the eddying gusts 
from the whirlpool beneath. 

As Anthony went down the square winding staircase, an hour 
later when the evening was over, and the keen winter air poured 
up to meet him, his brain was throbbing with the madness of 
dance and music and whirling colour. Here, it seemed to him, 
lay the secret of life. For a few minutes his old day-dreams 
came back but in more intoxicating dress. The figure of Mary 
Corbet in her rose-coloured silk and her clouds of black hair, 
and her jewels and her laughing eyes and scarlet mouth, and 
her violet fragrance and her fire—this dominated the boy. As 
he walked towards the stables across the starlit court, she seemed 
to move before him, to hold out her hands to him, to call him 
her own dear lad; to invite him out of the drab-coloured life 
that lay on all sides, behind and before, up into a mystic region 
of jewelled romance, where she and he would live and be one 
in the endless music of rippling strings and shrill flutes and the 
maddening tap of a little hidden drum. 

But the familiar touch of his own sober suit and the creaking 
saddle as he rode home to Lambeth, and the icy wind that sang 
in the river sedges, and the wholesome smell of the horse and 
the touch of the coarse hair at the shoulder, talked and breathed 
the old Puritan common sense back to him again. That warm- 
painted, melodious world he had left was gaudy nonsense; and 
dancing was not the same as living; and Mary Corbet was not 
just a rainbow on the foam that would die when the sun went in; 
but both she and he together were human souls, redeemed by 
the death of the Saviour, with His work to do and no time or 
energy for folly; and James Maxwell in the Tower—(thank God, 
however, not for long! )—James Maxwell with his wrenched joints 
and forehead and lips wet with agony, was in the right; and 
that lean bitter furious woman in the purple and pearls, who 
supped to the blare of trumpets, and danced to the ripple of lutes, 
wholly and utterly and eternally in the wrong. 


CHAPTER XI 
A STATION OF THE CROSS 


PHILOSOPHERS tell us that the value of existence lies not in 
the objects perceived, but in the powers of perception. The 
tragedy of a child over a broken doll is not less poignant than 
the anguish of a worshipper over a broken idol, or of a king 
over a ruined realm. Thus the conflict of Isabel during those 
past autumn and winter months was no less august than the 
pain of the priest on the rack, or the struggle of his innocent 
betrayer to rescue him, or the misery of Lady Maxwell over 
the sorrows that came to her in such different ways through her 
two sons. 

Isabel’s soul was tender above most souls; and the powers 
of feeling pain and of sustaining it were also respectively both 
acute and strong. The sense of pressure, or rather of disruption, 
became intolerable. She was indeed a soul on the rack; if she 
had been less conscientious she would have silenced the voice 
of Divine Love that seemed to call to her from the Catholic 
Church; if she had been less natural and feminine she would have 
trampled out of her soul the appeal of the human love of Hubert. 
As it was, she was wrenched both ways. Now the cords at one 
end or the other would relax a little, and the corresponding relief 
was almost a shock; but when she tried to stir and taste the 
freedom of decision that now seemed in her reach, they would 
tighten again with a snap; and she would find herself back on 
the torture. To herself she seemed powerless; it appeared to 
her, when she reflected on it consciously, that it was merely a 
question as to which part of her soul would tear first, as to 
which ultimately retained her. She began to be terrified at 
solitude; the thought of the coming night, with its long hours of 
questioning and torment until the dawn, haunted her during the 
day. She would read in her room, or remain at her prayers, in 
the hopes of distracting herself from the struggle, until sleep 
seemed the supreme necessity: then, when she lay down, sleep 
would flap its wings in mockery and flit away, leaving her wide- 

280 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 281 


awake staring at the darkness of the room or of her own eyelids, 
until the windows began to glimmer and the cocks to crow from 
farm buildings. 

In spite of her first resolve to fight the battle alone, she soon 
found herself obliged to tell Mistress Margaret all that was 
possible; but she felt that to express her sheer need of Hubert, 
as she thought it, was beyond her altogether. How could a 
nun understand? 

“My darling,” said the old lady, “it would not be Calvary 
without the darkness; and you cannot have Christ without Cal- 
vary. Remember that the Light of the World makes darkness 
His secret place; and so you see that if you were able to feel 
that any human soul really understood, it would mean that the 
darkness was over. I have suffered that Night twice myself; 
the third time I think, will be in the valley of death.” 

Isabel only half understood her; but it was something to 
know that others had tasted the cup too; and that what was so 
bitter was not necessarily poisonous. 

At another time as the two were walking together under the 
pines one evening, and the girl had again tried to show to the 
nun the burning desolation of her soul, Mistress Margaret had 
suddenly turned. 

“Listen, dear child,” she said, “I will tell you a secret. Over 
there,” and she pointed to where the sunset glowed behind the 
tree trunks and the slope beyond, “over there, in West Grinsted, 
rests our dear Lord in the blessed sacrament. His Body lies 
lonely, neglected and forgotten by all but half a dozen souls; 
while twenty years ago all England reverenced It. Behold and 
see if there be any sorrow—” and then the nun stopped, as she 
saw Isabel’s amazed eyes staring at her. 

But it haunted the girl and comforted her now and then. 
Yet in the fierceness of her pain she asked herself again and 
again, was it true—was it true? Was she sacrificing her life for 
a dream, a fairy-story? or was it true that there the body, that 
had hung on the cross fifteen hundred years ago, now rested 
alone, hidden in a silver pyx, within locked doors for fear of the 
Jews.—Oh! dear Lord, was it true? 

Hubert had kept his word, and left the place almost imme- 
diately after his last interview; and was to return at Easter for 
his final answer. Christmas had come and gone; and it seemed 
to her as if even the tenderest mysteries of the Christian Religion 
had no touch with her now. She walked once more in the realm 


282 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


of grace, as in the realm of nature, an exile from its spirit. 
All her sensitive powers seemed so absorbed in interior pain that 
there was nothing in her to respond to or apprecmate the most 
keen external impressions. As she awoke and looked up on 
Christmas morning early, and saw the frosted panes and the 
snow lying like wool on the cross-bars, and heard the Christ- 
mas bells peal out in the listening air; as she came downstairs 
and the old pleasant acrid smell of the evergreens met her, and 
she saw the red berries over each picture, and the red heart of 
the wood-fire; nay, as she knelt at the chancel rails, and tried 
in her heart to adore the rosy Child in the manger, and received 
the sacred symbols of His Flesh and Blood, and entreated Him 
to remember His loving-kindness that brought Him down from 
heaven—yet the whole was far less real, less intimate to her, 
than the sound of Hubert’s voice as he had said good-bye two 
months ago; less real than one of those darting pangs of thought 
that fell on her heart all day like a shower of arrows. 

And then, when the sensitive strings of her soul were stretched 
to anguish, a hand dashed across them, striking a wailing discord, 
and they did not break. The news of Anthony’s treachery, and 
still more his silence, performed the incredible, and doubled her 
pain without breaking her heart. 

On the Tuesday morning early Lady Maxwell had sent her 
note by a courier; bidding him return at once with the answer. 
The evening had come, and he had not appeared. The night 
passed and the morning came; and it was not till noon that the 
man at last arrived, saying he had seen Mr. Norris on the pre- 
vious evening, and that he had read the note through there and 
then, and had said there was no answer. Surely there could be 
but one explanation of that—that no answer was possible. 

It could not be said that Isabel actively considered the question 
and chose to doubt Anthony rather than to trust him. She was 
so nearly passive now, with the struggle she had gone through, 
that this blow came on her with the overwhelming effect of an 
hypnotic suggestion. Her will did not really accept it, any more 
than her intellect really weighed it; but she succumbed to it; 
and did not even write again, nor question the man further. Had 
she done this she might perhaps have found out the truth, that 
the man, a stupid rustic with enough shrewdness to lie, but not 
enough to lie cleverly, had had his foolish head turned by the 
buzz of London town and the splendour of Lambeth stables and 
the friendliness of the grooms there, and had got heavily drunk 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 283 


on leaving Anthony; that the answer which he had put into his 
hat had very naturally fallen out and been lost; and that when 
at last he returned to the country already eight hours after his 
time, and found the note was missing, he had stalwartly lied, 
hoping that the note was unimportant and that things would 
adjust themselves or be forgotten before a day of reckoning should 
alrive. 

And so Isabel’s power of resistance collapsed under this last 
blow; and her soul lay still at last, almost too much tormented 
to feel. Her last hope was gone; Anthony had betrayed his 
friend. 

The week crept by, and Saturday came. She went out soon 
after dinner to see a sick body or two in an outlying hamlet; for 
she had never forgotten Mrs. Dent’s charge, and, with the present 
minister’s approval, still visited the sick one or two days a week 
at least. Then towards sunset she came homewards over some 
high ground on the outskirts of Ashdown Forest. The snow 
that had fallen before Christmas, had melted a week or two 
ago; and the frost had broken up; it was a heavy leaden evening, 
with an angry glow shining, as through chinks of a wall, from 
the west towards which she was going. The village lay before 
her in the gloom; and lights were beginning to glimmer here 
and there. She contrasted in a lifeless way that pleasant group 
of warm houses with their suggestions of love and homeliness 
with her own desolate self. She passed up through the village 
towards the Hall, whither she was going to report on the invalids 
to Lady Maxwell; and in the appearance of the houses on either 
side she thought there was an unaccustomed air. Several doors 
stood wide open with the brightness shining out into the twilight, 
as if the inhabitants had suddenly deserted their homes. Others 
were still dark and cold, although the evening was drawing on. 
There was not a moving creature to be seen. She passed up, 
wondering a little, through the gatehouse, and turned into the 
gravel sweep; and there stopped short at the sight of a great 
crowd of men and women and children, assembled in dead silence. 
Some one was standing at the entrance-steps, with his head bent 
as if he were talking to those nearest him in a low voice. 

As she came up there ran a whisper of her name; the people 
drew back to let her through, and she passed, sick with suspense, 
to the man on the steps, whom she now recognised as Mr. James’ 
body-servant. His face looked odd and drawn, she thought. 

“What is it?” she asked in a sharp whisper. 


| 
H 
\ 


284 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


‘“‘Mr. James is here, madam; he is with Lady Maxwell in the 
cloister-wing. Will you please to go up?” 

“Mr. James! It is no news about Mr. Anthony—or—or Mr, 
Hubert!” 

“No, madam.” The man hesitated. “Mr. James has been 
racked, madam.” 

The man’s voice broke in a great sob as he ended. 

‘¢ Ah! ) 

She reeled against the post; a man behind caught her and 
steadied her; and there was a quick breath of pity from the 
crowd. 

“Ah, poor thing!” said a woman’s voice behind her. 

“T beg your pardon, madam,” said the servant. “I should not 
have $ 

‘““And—and he is upstairs?” 

“He and my lady are together, madam.” 

She looked at him a moment, dazed with the horror of it; 
and then going past him, pushed open the door and went through 
into the inner hall. Here again she stopped suddenly: it was 
half full of people, silent and expectant—the men, the grooms, 
the maid-servants, and even two or three farm-men. She heard 
the rustle of her name from the white faces that looked at her 
from the gloom; but none moved; and she crossed the hall 
alone, and turned down the lower corridor that led to the cloister- 
wing. 

At the foot of the staircase she stopped again; her heart 
drummed in her ears, as she listened intently with parted lips. 
There was a profound silence; the lamp on the stairs had not 
been lighted, and the terrace window only let in a pale glimmer. 

It was horrible to her! this secret presence of incarnate pain 
that brooded somewhere in the house, this silence of living 
anguish, worse than death a thousand times! 

Where was he? What would it look like? Even a scream 
somewhere would have relieved her, and snapped the tension of 
the listening stillness that lay on her like a shocking nightmare. 
This lobby with its well-known doors—the banister on which 
her fingers rested—the well of the staircase up which she stared 
with dilated eyes—all was familiar; and yet, somewhere in the 
shadows overhead lurked this formidable Presence of pain, mute, 
anguished, terrifying. . 

She longed to run back, to shriek for help; but she dared not: 
and stood panting. She went up a couple of steps—stopped, 





A STATION OF THE CROSS 285 


listened to the sick thumping of her heart—took another step 
and stopped again; and so, listening, peering, hesitating, came 
to the head of the stairs. 

Ah! there was the door, with a line of light beneath it. It 
was there that the horror dwelt. She stared at the thin bright 
line; waited and listened again for even a moan or a sigh from 
within, but none came. 

Then with a great effort she stepped forward and tapped. 

There was no answer; but as she listened she heard from within 
the gentle tinkle of some liquid running into a bowl, rhythmically, 
-and with pauses. Then again she tapped, nervously and rapidly, 
and there was a murmur from the room; she opened the door 
softly, pushed it, and took a step into the room, half closing it 
behind her. 

There were two candles burning on a table in the middle of 
the room, and on the near side of it was a group of three 
persons. ... 

Isabel had seen in one of Mistress Margaret’s prayer-books 
an engraving of an old Flemish Pieta—a group of the Blessed 
Mother holding in her arms the body of her Crucified Son, with 
the Magdalen on one side, supporting one of the dead Saviour’s 
hands. Isabel now caught her breath in a sudden gasp; for 
here was the scene reproduced before her. 

Lady Maxwell was on a low seat bending forwards; the white 
cap and ruff seemed like a veil thrown all about her head and 
beneath her chin; she was holding in her arms the body of 
her son, who seemed to have fainted as he sat beside her; his 
head had fallen back against her breast, and his pointed beard 
and dark hair and her black dress beyond emphasised the deathly 
whiteness of his face on which the candlelight fell; his mouth 
was open, like a dead man’s. Mistress Margaret was kneeling 
by his left hand, holding it over a basin and delicately sponging 
it; and the whole air was fragrant and aromatic with some oint- 
ment in the water; a long bandage or two lay on the ground 
beside the basin. The evening light over the opposite roofs 
through the window beyond mingled with the light of the tapers, 
throwing a strange radiance over the group. The table on which 
the tapers stood looked to Isabel like a stripped altar. 

She stood by the door, her lips parted, motionless; looking with 
great eyes from face to face. It was as if the door had given 
access to another world where the passion of Christ was being 
re-enacted. 


286 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Then she sank on her knees, still watching. There was no 
sound but the faint ripple of the water into the basin and the 
quiet breathing of the three. Lady Maxwell now and then lifted 
a handkerchief in silence and passed it across her son’s face. 
Isabel, still staring with great wide eyes, began to sigh gently 
to herself. 

“Anthony, Anthony, Anthony!” she whispered. 

“Oh, no, no, no!” she whispered again under her breath. 
“No, Anthony! you could not, you could not!” 

Then from the man there came one or two long sighs, ending 
in a moan that quavered into silence; he stirred slightly in his 
mother’s arms; and then in a piteous high voice came the words 
ST CSUs ROU OSI NAN SNESEOMINLIEGN ates OI COSTES TE 

Consciousness was coming back. He fancied himself still on 
the rack. 

Lady Maxwell said nothing, but gathered him a little closer, 
and bent her face lower over him. 

Then again came a long sobbing indrawn breath; James strug- 
gled for a moment; then opened his eyes and saw his mother’s 
face. 

Mistress Margaret had finished with the water; and was now 
swiftly manipulating a long strip of white linen. Isabel still 
sunk on her knees watched the bandage winding in and out round 
his wrist, and between his thumb and forefinger. 

Then he turned his head sharply towards her with a gasp as 
if in pain; and his eyes fell on Isabel. 

“Mistress Isabel,’ he said; and his voice was broken and 
untuneful. 

Mistress Margaret turned; and smiled at her; and at the sight 
the intolerable compression on the girl’s heart relaxed. 

“Come, child,’ she added, “come and help me with his hand. 
No, no, lie still,’ she added; for James was making a movement 
as if to rise. 

James smiled at her as she came forward; and she saw that 
his face had a strange look as if after a long illness. 

“You see, Mistress Isabel,” he said, in the same cracked voice, 
and with an infinitely pathetic courtesy, ‘I may not rise.” 

Isabel’s eyes filled with sudden tears, his attempt at his old 
manner was more touching than all else; and she came and 
knelt beside the old nun. 

‘Hold the fingers,” she said; and the familiar old voice brought 
the girl a stage nearer her normal consciousness again. 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 287 


Isabel took the priest’s fingers and saw that they were limp 
and swollen. The sleeve fell back a little as Mistress Margaret 
manipulated the bandage; and the girl saw that the forearm 
looked shapeless and discoloured. 

She glanced up in swift terror at his face, but he was looking 
at his mother, whose eyes were bent on his; Isabel looked quickly 
down again. 

“There,” said Mistress Margaret, tying the last knot, “it is 
done.” 

Mr. James looked his thanks over his shoulder at her, as she 
nodded and smiled before turning to leave the room. 

Isabel sat slowly down and watched them. 

“This is but a flying visit, Mistress Isabel,” said James. “I 
must leave to-morrow again.” 

He had sat up now, and settled himself in his seat, though 
his mother’s arm was still round him. The voice and the pitiful 
attempt were terrible to Isabel. Slowly the consciousness was 
filtering into her mind of what all this implied; what it must 
have been that had turned this tall self-contained man into this 
weak creature who lay in his mother’s arms, and fainted at a 
touch and sobbed. She could say nothing; but could only look, 
and breathe, and look. 

Then it came to her mind that Lady Maxwell had not spoken 
a word. She looked at her; that old wrinkled face with its white 
crown of hair and lace had a new and tremendous dignity. There 
was no anxiety in it; scarcely even grief; but only a still and 
awful anguish, towering above ordinary griefs like a mountain 
above the world; and there was the supreme peace too that can 
only accompany a supreme emotion—she seemed conscious of 
nothing but her son. 

Isabel could not answer James; and he seemed not to expect 
it; he had turned back to his mother again, and they were looking 
at one another. Then in a moment Mistress Margaret came 
back with a glass that she put to James’ lips; and he drank it 
without a word. She stood looking at the group an instant or 
two, and then turned to Isabel. 

“Come downstairs with me, my darling; there is nothing more 
that we can do.” 

They went out of the room together; the mother and son had 
not stirred again; and Mistress Margaret slipped her arm quickly 
round the girl’s waist, as they went downstairs. 

In the cloister beneath was a pleasant little oak parlour looking 


288 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


out on to the garden and the long south side of the house. Mistress 
‘Margaret took the little hand-lamp that burned in the cloister 
itself as they passed along silently together, and guided the girl 
through into the parlour on the left-hand side. There was a 
tall chair standing before the hearth, and as Mistress Margaret 
sat down, drawing the girl with her, Isabel sank down on 
the footstool at her feet, and hid her face on the old nun’s 
knees, 

There was silence for a minute or two. Mistress Margaret 
set down the lamp on the table beside her, and passed her hands 
caressingly over the girl’s hands and hair; but said nothing, 
until Isabel’s whole body heaved up convulsively once or twice, 
before she burst into a torrent of weeping. 

“My darling,” said the old lady in a quiet steady voice, ‘we 
should thank God instead of grieving. To think that this house 
should have given two confessors to the Church, father and son! 
Yes, yes, dear child, I know what you are thinking of, the two 
dear lads we both love; well, well, we do not know, we must 
trust them both to God. It may not be true of Anthony; and 
even if it be true—well, he must have thought he was serving 
his Queen. And for Hubert ? 

Isabel lifted her face and looked with a dreadful questioning 
stare. 

“Dear child,” said the nun, “do not look like that. Nothing 
is so bad as not trusting God.” 

‘Anthony, Anthony!” . . . whispered the girl. 

“James told us the same story as the gentleman on Sunday,” 
went on the nun. “But he said no hard word, and he does not 
condemn. I know his heart. He does not know why he is 
released, nor by whose order: but an order came to let him go, 
and his papers with it: and he must be out of England by Mon- 
day morning: so he leaves here to-morrow in the litter in which 
he came. He is to say mass to-morrow, if he is able.” 

‘Mass? Here?” said the girl, in the same sharp whisper; 
and her sobbing ceased abruptly. 

“Yes, dear; if he is able to stand and use his hands enough. 
They have settled it upstairs.” 

Tsabel continued to look up in her face wildly. 

“Ah!” said the old nun again. ‘You must not look like 
that. Remember that he thinks those wounds the most precious 
things in the world—yes—and his mother, too!” 

“Y must be at mass,” said Isabel; ‘‘God means it.” 





A STATION OF THE CROSS 289 


“Now, now,” said Mistress Margaret soothingly, ‘you do not 
know what you are saying.” 

“J mean it,” said Isabel, with sharp emphasis; ‘“‘God means it.’ 

Mistress Margaret took the girl’s face between her hands, and 
looked steadily down into her wet eyes. Isabel returned the look 
as steadily. 

“Ves, yes,” she said, ‘‘as God sees us.” 

Then she broke into talk, at first broken and incoherent in 
language, but definite and orderly in ideas, and in her interpre- 
tations of these last months. 

Kneeling beside her with her hands clasped on the nun’s knee, 
Isabel told her all her struggles; disentangling at last in a way 
that she had never been able to do before, all the complicated 
strands of self-will and guidance and blindness that had so 
knotted and twisted themselves into her life. The nun was 
amazed at the spiritual instinct of this Puritan child, who ranged 
her motives so unerringly; dismissing this as of self, marking this 
as of God’s inspiration, accepting this and rejecting that element 
of the circumstances of her life; steering confidently between 
the shoals of scrupulous judgment and conscience on the one 
side, and the hidden rocks of presumption and despair on the 
other—these very dangers that had baffled and perplexed her 
so long—and tracing out through them all the clear deep safe 
channel of God’s intention, who had allowed her to emerge at 
last from the tortuous and baffling intricacies of character and 
circumstance into the wide open sea of His own sovereign Will. 

It seemed to the nun, as Isabel talked, as if it needed just a 
final touch of supreme tragedy to loosen and resolve all the 
complications; and that this had been supplied by the vision 
upstairs. There she had seen a triumphant trophy of another’s 
sorrow and conquest. There was hardly an element in her own 
troubles that was not present in that human Pieta upstairs— 
treachery—loneliness—sympathy—bereavement—and above all 
the supreme sacrificial act of human love subordinated to divine 
—human love, purified and transfigured and rendered invincible 
and immortal by the very immolation of it at the feet of God— 
all this that the son and mother in their welcome of pain had 
accomplished in the crucifixion of one and the heart-piercing of 
the other—this was light opened to the perplexed, tormented 
soul of the girl—a radiance poured out of the darkness of their 
sorrow and made her way plain before her face. 

“My Isabel,” said the old nun, when the girl had finished and 


290 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


was hiding her face again, “this is of God. Glory to His Name! 
I must ask James’ leave; and then you must sleep here to-night, 
for the mass to-morrow.” 


The chapel at Maxwell Hall was in the cloister wing; but a 
stranger visiting the house would never have suspected it. Open- 
ing out of Lady Maxwell’s new sitting-room was a little lobby 
or landing, about four yards square, lighted from above; at the 
further end of it was the door into her bedroom. This lobby was 
scarcely more than a broad passage; and would attract no atten- 
tion from any passing through it. The only piece of furniture 
in it was a great tall old chest as high as a table, that stood 
against the inner wall beyond which was the long gallery that 
looked down upon the cloister garden. The lobby appeared to 
be practically as broad as the two rooms on either side of it; 
but this was effected by the outer wall being made to bulge a 
little; and the inner wall being thinner than inside the two liv- 
ing-rooms. The deception was further increased by the two 
living-rooms being first wainscoted and then hung with thick tap- 
estry; while the lobby was bare. A curious person who should 
look in the chest would find there only an old dress and a few 
pieces of stuff. This lobby, however, was the chapel; and through 
the chest was the entrance to one of the priest’s hiding holes, 
where also the altar-stone and the ornaments and the vestments 
were kept. The bottom of the chest was in reality hinged in such 
a way that it would fall, on the proper pressure being applied 
in two places at once, sufficiently to allow the side of the chest 
against the wall to be pushed aside, which in turn gave entrance 
to a little space some two yards long by a yard wide; and here 
were kept all the necessaries for divine worship; with room besides 
for a couple of men at least to be hidden away. There was also 
a way from this hole on to the roof, but it was a difficult and 
dangerous way; and was only to be used in case of extreme 
necessity. 

It was in this lobby that Isabel found herself the next morning 
kneeling and waiting for mass. She had been awakened by 
Mistress Margaret shortly before four o’clock and told in a whisper 
to dress herself in the dark; for it was impossible under the cir- 
cumstances to tell whether the house was not watched; and a 
light seen from outside might conceivably cause trouble and dis- 
turbance. So she had dressed herself and come down from her 
room along the passages, so familiar during the day, so sombre 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 291 


and suggestive now in the black morning with but one shaded 
light placed at the angles. Other figures were stealing along too; 
but she could not teli who they were in the gloom. Then she 
had come through the little sitting-room where the scene of last 
night had taken place and into the lobby beyond. 

But the whole place was transformed. 

Over the old chest now hung a picture, that usually was in 
Lady Maxwell’s room, of the Blessed Mother and her holy Child, 
in a great carved frame of some black wood. The chest had be- 
come an altar: Isabel could see the slight elevation in the middle 
of the long white linen cloth where the altar-stone lay, and upon 
that again, at the left corner, a pile of linen and silk. Upon 
the altar at the back stood two slender silver candlesticks with 
burning tapers in them; and a silver crucifix between them. The 
carved wooden panels, representing the sacrifice of Isaac on the 
one half and the offering of Melchisedech on the other, served 
instead of an embroidered altar-frontal. Against the side wall 
stood a little white-covered folding table with the cruets and 
other necessaries upon it. . 

There were two or three benches across the rest of the lobby; 
and at these were kneeling a dozen or more persons, motionless, 
their faces downcast. There was a little wind such as blows 
before the dawn moaning gently outside; and within was a slight 
draught that made the taper flames lean over now and then. 

Isabel took her place beside Mistress Margaret at the front 
bench; and as she knelt forward she noticed a space left beyond 
her for Lady Maxwell. A moment later there came slow and 
painful steps through the sitting-room, and Lady Maxwell came 
in very slowly with her son leaning on her arm and on a stick. 
There was a silence so profound that it seemed to Isabel as if 
all had stopped breathing. She could only hear the slow plung- 
ing pulse of her own heart. 

James took his mother across the altar to her place, and left 
her there, bowing to her; and then went up to the altar to vest. 
As he reached it and paused, a servant slipped out and received 
the stick from him. The priest made the sign of the cross, 
and took up the amice from the vestments that lay folded on 
the altar. He was already in his cassock. 

Isabel watched each movement with a deep agonising interest; 
he was so frail and broken, so bent in his figure, so slow and 
feeble in his movements. He made an attempt to raise the amice 
but could not, and turned slightly; and the man from behind 


292 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


stepped up again and lifted it for him. Then he helped him with 
each of the vestments, lifted the alb over his head and tenderly 
drew the bandaged hands through the sleeves; knit the girdle 
round him; gave him the stole to kiss and then placed it over 
his neck and crossed the ends beneath the girdle and adjusted 
the amice; then he placed the maniple on his left arm, but so 
tenderly! and lastly, lifted the great red chasuble and dropped it 
over his head and straightened it—and there stood the priest as 
he had stood last Sunday, in crimson vestments again; but bowed 
and thin-faced now. . 

Then he began the preparation with the servant who knelt 
beside him in his ordinary livery, as server; and Isabel heard 
the murmur of the Latin words for the first time. Then he 
stepped up to the altar, bent slowly and kissed it and the mass 
began. 

Isabel had a missal, lent to her by Mistress Margaret; but 
she hardly looked at it; so intent was she on that crimson figure 
and his strange movements and his low broken voice. It was 
unlike anything that she had ever imagined worship to be. Pub- 
lic worship to her had meant hitherto one of two things—either 
sitting under a minister and having the word applied to her soul 
in the sacrament of the pulpit; or else the saying of prayers 
by the minister aloud and distinctly and with expression, so 
that the intellect could follow the words, and assent with a hearty 
Amen. The minister was a minister to man of the Word of God, 
an interpreter of His gospel to man. 

But here was a worship unlike all this in almost every detail. 
The priest was addressing God, not man; therefore he did so in 
a low voice, and in a tongue as Campion had said on the scaffold 
“that they both understood.” It was comparatively unimportant 
whether man followed it word for word, for (and here the second 
radical difference lay) the point of the worship for the people 
lay, not in an intellectual apprehension of the words, but in a 
voluntary assent to and participation in the supreme act to which 
the words were indeed necessary but subordinate. It was the 
thing that was done; not the words that were said, that was 
mighty with God. Here, as these Catholics round Isabel at any 
rate understood it, and as she too began to perceive it, though 
dimly and obscurely, was the sublime mystery of the Cross pre- 
sented to God. As He looked down well pleased into the silence 
and darkness of Calvary, and saw there the act accomplished 
by which the world was redeemed, so here (this handful of 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 293 


disciples believed), He looked down into the silence and twilight: 
of this little lobby, and saw that same mystery accomplished 
at the hands of one who in virtue of his participation in the 
priesthood of the Son of God was empowered to pronounce these 
heart-shaking words by which the Body that hung on Calvary, 
and the Blood that dripped from it there, were again spread 
before His eyes, under the forms of bread and wine. 

Much of this faith of course was still dark to Isabel; but yet 
she understood enough; and when the murmur of the priest died 
to a throbbing silence, and the worshippers sank in yet more 
profound adoration, and then with terrible effort and a quick 
gasp or two of pain, those wrenched bandaged hands rose trem- 
bling in the air with Something that glimmered white between 
them; the Puritan girl too drooped her head, and lifted up her 
heart, and entreated the Most High and Most Merciful to look 
down on the Mystery of Redemption accomplished on earth; and 
for the sake of the Well-Beloved to send down His Grace on the 
Catholic Church; to strengthen and save the living; to give rest 
and peace to the dead; and especially to remember her dear 
brother Anthony, and Hubert whom she loved; and Mistress 
Margaret and Lady Maxwell, and this faithful household: and 
the poor battered man before her, who, not only as a priest was 
made like to the Eternal Priest, but as a victim too had hung 
upon a prostrate cross, fastened by hands and feet; thus bearing 
on his body for all to see the marks of the Lord Jesus. 


Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret both rose and stepped 
forward after the Priest’s Communion, and received from those 
wounded hands the Broken Body of the Lord. 

And then the mass was presently over; and the server stepped 
forward again to assist the priest to unvest, himself lifting each 
vestment off, for Father Maxwell was terribly exhausted by now, 
and laying it on the altar. Then he helped him to a little foot- 
stool in front of him, for him to kneel and make his thanksgiving, 
Isabel looked with an odd wonder at the server; he was the man 
that she knew so well, who opened the door for her, and waited 
at table; but now a strange dignity rested on him as he moved 
confidently and reverently about the awful altar, and touched 
the vestments that even to her Puritan eyes shone with new sanc- 
tity. It startled her to think of the hidden Catholic life of this 
house—of these servants who loved and were familiar with 
mysteries that she had been taught to dread and distrust, but 


294 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


before which she too now was to bow her being in faith and 
adoration. 

After a minute or two, Mistress Margaret touched Isabel on 
the arm and beckoned to her to come up to the altar, which she 
began immediately to strip of its ornaments and cloth, having 
first lit another candle on one of the benches. Isabel helped her 
in this with a trembling dread, as all the others except Lady 
Maxwell and her son were now gone out silently; and presently 
the picture was down, and leaning against the wall; the orna- 
ments and sacred vessels packed away in their box, with the 
vestments and linen in another. Then together they lifted off 
the heavy altar stone. Mistress Margaret next laid back the 
lid of the chest; and put her hands within, and presently Isabel 
saw the back of the chest fall back, apparently into the wall. 
Mistress Margaret then beckoned to Isabel to climb into the 
chest and go through; she did so without much difficulty, and 
found herself in the little room behind. There was a stool or 
two and some shelves against the wall, with a plate or two upon 
them and one or two tools. She received the boxes handed 
through, and followed Mistress Margaret’s instructions as to 
where to place them; and when all was done, she slipped back 
again through the chest into the lobby. 

The priest and his mother were still in their places, motionless. 
Mistress Margaret closed the chest inside and out, beckoned 
Isabel into the sitting-room and closed the door behind them. 
Then she threw her arms round the girl and kissed her again 
and again. 

“My own darling,” said the nun, with tears in her eyes. ‘‘God 
bless you—your first mass. Oh! I have prayed for this. And 
you know all our secrets now. Now go to your room, and to bed 
again. It is only a little after five. You shall see him—James 
—before he goes. God bless you, my dear!” 

She watched Isabel down the passage; and then turned back 
again to where the other two were still kneeling, to make her 
own thanksgiving. 

Isabel went to her room as one in a dream. She was soon in 
bed again, but could not sleep; the vision of that strange worship 
she had assisted at; the pictorial details of it, the glow of 
the two candles on the shoulders of the crimson chasuble as the 
priest bent to kiss the altar or to adore; the bowed head of the 
server at his side; the picture overhead with the Mother and 
her downcast eyes, and the radiant Child stepping from her knees 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 295 


to bless the world—all this burned on the darkness. With the 
least effort of imagination too she could recall the steady murmur 
of the unfamiliar words; hear the rustle of the silken vestment; 
the stirrings and breathings of the worshippers in the little 
room. 

Then in endless course the intellectual side of it all began to 
present itself. She had assisted at what the Government called 
a crime; it was for that—that collection of strange but surely 
at least innocent things—actions, words, material objects—that 
men and women of the same flesh and blood as herself were 
ready to die; and for which others equally of one nature with 
herself were ready to put them to death. It was the mass—the 
mass—she had seen—she repeated the word to herself, so sin- 
ister, so suggestive, so mighty. Then she began to think again 
—if indeed it is possible to say that she had ever ceased to 
think of him—of Anthony, who would be so much horrified if 
he knew; of Hubert, who had renounced this wonderful worship, 
and all, she feared, for love of her—and above all of her father, 
who had regarded it with such repugnance:—yes, thought Isabel, 
but he knows all now. Then she thought of Mistress Margaret 
again. After all, the nun had a spiritual life which in intensity 
and purity surpassed any she had ever experienced or even imag- 
ined; and yet the heart of it all was the mass. She thought of 
the old wrinkled quiet face when she came back to breakfast 
at the Dower House: she had soon learnt to read from that face 
whether mass had been said that morning or not at the Hall. 
And Mistress Margaret was only one of thousands to whom this 
little set of actions half seen and words half heard, wrought and 
said by a man in a curious dress, were more precious than all 
meditation and prayer put together. Could the vast super- 
structure of prayer and effort and aspiration rest upon a 
piece of empty folly such as children or savages might 
invent? ! 

Then very naturally, as she began now to get quieter and less 
excited, she passed on to the spiritual side of it. 

Had that indeed happened that Mistress Margaret believed— 
that the very Body and Blood of her own dear Saviour, Jesus 
Christ, had in virtue of His own clear promise—His own clear 
promise!—become present there under the hands of His priest? 
Was it, indeed,—this half-hour action,—the most august mystery 
of time, the Lamb eternally slain, presenting Himself and His 
Death before the Throne in a tremendous and bloodless Sacrifice 


296 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


—so august that the very angels can only worship it afar off 
and cannot perform it; or was it all a merely childish piece of 
blasphemous mummery, as she had been brought up to believe? 
And then this Puritan girl, who was beginning to taste the joys 
of release from her misery now that she had taken this step, and 
united a whole-hearted offering of herself to the perfect Offering 
of her Lord—now her soul made its first trembling movement 
towards a real external authority. ‘I believe,” she rehearsed to 
herself, ‘‘not because my spiritual experience tells me that the 
Mass is true, for it does not; not because the Bible says so, 
because it is possible to interpret that in more than one way; 
but because that Society which I now propose to treat as Divine 
—the Representative of the Incarnate Word—nay, His very 
mystical Body—tells me so; and I rely upon that, and rest in 
her arms, which are the Arms of the Everlasting, and hang upon 
her lips, through which the Infallible Word speaks.” 

And so Isabel, in a timid peace at last, from her first act of 
Catholic faith, fell asleep. 

She awoke to find the winter sun streaming into her room, 
and Mistress Margaret by her bedside. 

“Dear child,” said the old lady, ‘I would not wake you earlier; 
you have had such a short night; but James leaves in an hour’s 
time; and it is just nine o’clock, and I know you wish to see 
him.” 

When she came down half an hour later she found Mistress 
Margaret waiting for her outside Lady Maxwell’s room. 

“Ale is in there,” she said. “I will tell Mary”; and she slipped 
in. Isabel outside heard the murmur of voices, and in a moment 
more was beckoned in by the nun. 

James Maxwell was sitting back in a great chair, looking ex- 
hausted and white. His mother, with something of the same 
look of supreme suffering and triumph, was standing behind his 
chair. She smiled gravely and sweetly at Isabel, as if to encour- 
age her; and went out at the further door, followed by her 
sister. 

‘“‘Mistress Isabel,” said the priest, without any introductory 
words, in his broken voice, and motioning her to a seat, “I cannot 
tell you what joy it was to see you at mass. Is it too much to 
hope that you will seek admission presently to the Catholic 
Church?” 

Isabel sat with downcast eyes. His tone was a little startling 
to her. It was as courteous as ever, but less courtly: there was 


A STATION OF THE CROSS 297 


just the faintest ring in it, in spite of its weakness, as of one who 
spoke with authority. ¢ 

“{—TI thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “I wish to hear more, 
at any rate.” 

“Yes, Mistress Isabel; and I thank God for it. Mr. Barnes 
will be the proper person. My mother will let him know; and 
I have no doubt that he will receive you by Easter, and that you 
can make your First Communion on that day.” 

She bowed her head, wondering a little at his assurance. 

“You will forgive me, I know, if I seem discourteous,” went 
on the priest, “but I trust you understand the terms on which 
you come. You come as a little child, to learn; is it not so? 
Simply that?” 

She bowed her head again. 

“Then I need not keep you. If you will kneel, I will give 
you my blessing.” 

She knelt down at once before him, and he blessed her, lifting 
his wrenched hand with difficulty and letting it sink quickly 
down again. 

By an impulse she could not resist she leaned forward on her 
knees and took it gently into her two soft hands and kissed it. 

“Oh! forgive him, Mr. Maxwell; I am sure he did not know.” 
And then her tears poured down. 

“My child,” said his voice tenderly, “‘in any case I not only 
forgive him, but I thank him. How could I not? He has brought 
me love-tokens from my Lord.” 

She kissed his hand again, and stood up; her eyes were blinded 
with tears; but they were not all for grief. 

Then Mistress Margaret came in from the inner room, and 
led the girl out; and the mother came in once more to her son 
for the ten minutes before he was to leave her. 


CHAPTER XII 
A STRIFE OF TONGUES 


ANTHONY now settled down rather drearily to the study of re- 
ligious controversy. The continual contrasts that seemed forced 
upon him by the rival systems of England and Rome (so far as 
England might be said to have a coherent system at this time), 
all tended to show him that there were these two sharply-divided 
schemes, each claiming to represent Christ’s Institution, and each 
exclusive of the other. Was it of Christ’s institution that His 
Church should be a department of the National Life; and that 
the civil prince should be its final arbiter and ruler, however 
little he might interfere in its ordinary administration? This 
was Elizabeth’s idea. Or was the Church, as Mr. Buxton had 
explained it, a huge unnational Society, dependent, it must of 
course be, to some extent on local circumstances, but essentially 
unrestricted by limit of nationality or of racial tendencies? ‘This 
was the claim of Rome. Of course an immense number of other 
arguments circled round this—in fact, most of the arguments that 
are familiar to controversialists at the present day; but the centre 
of all, to Anthony’s mind, as indeed it was to the mind of the 
civil and religious authorities of the time, was the question of 
supremacy—FElizabeth or Gregory? 

He read a certain number of books; and it will be remembered 
that he had followed, with a good deal of intelligence, Campion’s 
arguments. Anthony was no theologian, and therefore missed 
perhaps the deep, subtle arguments; but he had a normal mind, 
and was able to appreciate and remember some salient points. 

For example, he was impressed greatly by the negative char- 
acter of Protestantism in such books as Nicholl’s “Pilgrimage.” 
In this work a man was held up as a type to be imitated whose 
whole religion to all appearances consisted of holding the Pope 
to be Antichrist, and his Church the synagogue of Satan, of dis- 
liking the doctrines of merit and of justification by works, of 
denying the Real Presence, and of holding nothing but what 
could be proved to his own satisfaction by the Scriptures. 

298 


A STRIFE OF TONGUES 299 


Then he read as much as he could of the great Jewell contro- 
versy. This Bishop of Salisbury, who had, however, recanted 
his Protestant opinions under Mary, and resumed them under 
Elizabeth, had published in 1562 his ‘Apology of the Church 
of England,” a work of vast research and learning. Mr. Harding, 
who had also had the advantage of having been on both sides, 
had answered it; and then the battle was arrayed. It was of 
course mostly above Anthony’s head; but he gained from what 
he was able to read of it a very fair estimate of the conflicting 
theses, though he probably could not have stated them intel- 
ligibly. He also made acquaintance with another writer against 
Jewell,—Rastall; and with one or two of Mr. Willet’s books, the 
author of “Synopsis Papismi,” and “Tretrastylon Papisticum.” 

Even more than by paper controversy, however, he was in- 
fluenced by history that was so rapidly forming before his eyes. 
The fact and the significance of the supremacy of the Queen in 
religion was impressed upon him more vividly by her suspension 
of Grindal than by all the books he ever read: here was the first 
ecclesiastic of the realm, a devout, humble and earnest man, re- 
strained from exercising his great qualities as a ruler and shep- 
herd of his people, by a woman whose religious character cer- 
tainly commanded no one’s respect, even if her moral life were 
free from scandal; and that, not because the Archbishop had been 
guilty of any crime or heresy, or was obviously unfitted for his 
post, but because his conscientious judgment on a point of Church 
discipline and liberty differed from hers; and this state of things 
was made possible not by an usurpation of power, but by the de- 
liberately ordered system of the Church of England. Anthony had 
at least sufficient penetration to see that this, as a fundamental 
principle of religion, however obscured it might be by subsequent 
developments, was yet fraught with dangers compared with which 
those of papal interference were comparatively trifling—dangers 
that is, not so much to early peace and prosperity, as to the whole 
spiritual nature of the nation’s Christianity. 

Yet another argument had begun to suggest itself, bearing 
upon the same point, of the relative advantages and dangers of 
Nationalism. When he had first entered the Archbishop’s service 
he had been inspired by the thought that the Church would share 
in the rising splendour of England; now he began to wonder 
whether she could have strength to resist the rising wordliness 
that was bound to accompany it. It is scarcely likely that men 
on fire with success, whether military or commercial, will be 


300 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


patient of the restraints of religion. If the Church is independent 
of the nation, she can protest and denounce freely; if she is knit 
closely to the nation, such rebuke is almost impossible. 

A conversation that Anthony had on this subject at the begin- 
ning of February helped somewhat to clear up this point. 

He was astonished after dinner one day to hear that Mr. 
Henry Buxton was at the porter’s lodge desiring to see him, and 
on going out. he found that it was indeed his old acquaintance, 
the prisoner. 

““Good-day, Master Norris,” said the gentleman, with his eyes 
twinkling; “you see the mouse has escaped, and is come to call 
upon the cat.” 

Anthony inquired further as to the details of his release. 

“Well, you see,” said Mr. Buxton, “they grew a-weary of me. 
I talked so loud at them all for one thing; and then you see I 
was neither priest nor agent nor conspirator, but only a plain 
country gentleman: so they took some hundred or two pounds 
off me, to make me still plainer; and let me go. Now, Mr. Nor- 
ris, will you come and dine with me, and resume our conversation 
that was so rudely interrupted by my journey last time? But 
then you see her Majesty would take no denial.” 

“YT have just dined,” said Anthony, “but 

“Well I will not ask you to see me dine again, as you did last 
time; but will you then sup with me? I am at the ‘Running 
Horse, Fleet Street, until to-morrow.’ 

Anthony accepted gladly; for he had been greatly taken with 
Mr. Buxton; and at Six o’clock that evening presented himself 
at the “Running Horse,” and was shown up to a private parlour. 

He found Mr. Buxton in the highest good-humour; he was 
even now on his way from Wisbeach, home again to Tonbridge, 
and was only staying in London to finish a little business he had. 

Before supper was over, Anthony had laid his difficulties before 
him. 

“My dear friend,” said the other, and his manner became at 
once sober and tender, “I thank you deeply for your confidence. 
After being thought midway between a knave and a fool for over 
a year, it is a comfort to be treated as an honest gentleman again. 
I hold very strongly with what you say; it is that, under God, 
that has kept me steady. As I said to you last time, Christ’s 
Kingdom is not of this world. Can you imagine, for example, 
Saint Peter preaching religious obedience to Nero to be a Chris- 
tian’s duty? Ido not say (God forbid) that her Grace is a Nero, 





A STRIFE OF TONGUES 30r 


or even a Poppza; but there is no particular reason why some 
successor of hers should not be. However, Nero or not, the 
principle is the same. I do not deny that a National Church 
may be immensely powerful, may convert thousands, may number 
zealous and holy men among her ministers and adherents—but 
yet her foundation is insecure. What when the tempest of God’s 
searching judgments begins to blow? 

“Or, to put it plainer, in a parable, you have seen, I doubt 
not, a gallant and his mistress together. So long as she is being 
wooed by him, she can command; he sighs and yearns and runs 
on errands—in short, she rules him. But when they are wedded 
—ah me! It is she—if he turns out a brute, that is—she that 
stands while my lord plucks off his boots—she who runs to fetch 
the tobacco-pipe and lights it and kneels by him. Now I hold 
that to wed the body spiritual to the body civil, is to wed a 
delicate dame to a brute. He may dress her well, give her jewels, 
clap her kindly on the head—but she is under him and no free 
woman. Ah!”—and then Mr. Buxton’s eyes began to shine as 
Anthony remembered they had done before, and his voice to grow 
solemn,—‘“and when the spouse is the Bride of Christ, purchased 
by His death, what then would be the sin to wed her to a carnal 
nation, who shall favour her, it may be, while she looks young 
and fair; but when his mood changes, or her appearance, then 
she is his slave and his drudge! His will and his whims are her 
laws; as he changes, so must she. She has to do his foul work; 
as she had to do for King Henry, as she is doing it now for Queen 
Bess; and as she will always have to do, God heip her, so long 
as she is wedded to the nation, instead of being free as the hand- 
maiden and spouse of Christ alone. My faith would be lost, Mr. 
Norris, and my heart broken quite, if I were forced to think the 
Church of England to be the Church of Christ.” 

They talked late that evening in the private baize-curtained 
parlour on the third floor. Anthony produced his difficulties one 
by one, and Mr. Buxton did his best to deal with them. For 
example, Anthony remarked on the fact that there had 
been no breach of succession as to the edifices and endow- 
ments of the Church; that the sees had been canonically filled, 
and even the benefices; and that therefore, like it or not, the 
Church of England now was identical with the Pre-Reformation 
Church. 

“Distinguo,”’ said his friend. ‘Of course she is the successor 
in one sense: what you say is very true. It is impossible to put 


302 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


your finger all along the line of separation. It is a serrated line. 
The affairs of a Church and a nation are so vast that that is sure 
to be so; although if you insist, I will point to the Supremacy 
Act of 1559 and the Uniformity Act of the same year as very 
clear evidences of a breach with the ancient order; in the former 
the governance is shifted from its original owner, the Vicar of 
Christ, and placed on Elizabeth; it was that that the Carthusian 
Fathers and Sir Thomas More and many others died sooner 
than allow: and the latter Act sweeps away all the ancient forms 
of worship in favour of a modern one. But I am not careful to 
insist upon those points; if you deny or disprove them,—though 
I do not envy any who attempts that—yet even then my prin- 
ciple remains, that all that to which the Church of England has 
succeeded is the edifices and the endowments; but that her 
spirit is wholly new. If a highwayman knocks me down to- 
morrow, strips me, clothes himself with my clothes, and rides 
my horse, he is certainly my successor in one sense; yet he will 
be rash if he presents himself to my wife and sons—though I 
have none, by the way—as the proper owner of my house and 
name.” 

“But there is no knocking down in the question,” said Anthony. 
“The bishops and clergy, or the greater part of them, consented 
to the change.” 

Mr. Buxton smiled. 

“Very well,” he said; “yet the case is.not greatly different if 
the gentleman threatens me with torture instead, if I do not 
voluntarily give him my clothes and my horse. If I were weak 
and yielded to him, yes, and made promises of all kinds in my 
cowardice—yet he would be no nearer being the true successor 
of my name and fortune. And if you read her Grace’s Acts, 
and King Henry’s too, you will find that that was precisely what 
took place. My dear sir,” Mr. Buxton went on, “if you will 
pardon my saying it, I am astounded at the effrontery of your 
authorities who claim that there was no breach. Your Puritans 
are wiser; they at least frankly say that the old was Anti- 
Christian; that His Holiness (God forgive me for saying it!), 
was an usurper: and that the new Genevan theology is the old 
gospel brought to light again. That I can understand; and indeed 
most of your churchmen think so too; and that there was a new 
beginning made with Protestantism. But when her Grace calls 
herself a Catholic, and tells the poor Frenchmen that it is the 
old religion here still: and your bishops, or one or two of them 


A STRIFE OF TONGUES 303 


rather, like Cheyney, I suppose, say so too—then I am rendered 
dumb—(if that were possible). If it is the same, then why, 
a-God’s name, were the altars dragged down, and the screens 
burned, and the vestments and the images and the stoups and 
the pictures and the ornaments, all swept out? Why, a-God’s 
name, was the old mass blotted out and this new mingle-mangle 
brought in, if it be all one? And for the last time, a-God’s name, 
why is it death to say mass now, if it be all one? Go, go: Such 
talk is foolishness, and worse.” 

Mr. Buxton was silent for a moment as Anthony eyed him; 
and then burst out again. 

‘“‘Ah! but worse than all are the folks that stand with one leg 
on either stool. We are the old Church, say they;—standing 
with the Protestant leg in the air,—therefore let us have the 
money and the buildings: they are our right. And then when a 
poor Catholic says, Then let us have the old mass, and the old 
penance and the old images: Nay, nay, nay, they say, lifting 
up the Catholic leg and standing on the other, those are Popery; 
and we are Protestants; we have made away with all such 
mummery and muniments of superstition. And so they go see- 
sawing to and fro. When you run at one leg they rest them on 
the other, and you know not where to take them.” 

And so the talk went on. When the evening was over, and 
Anthony was rising to return to Lambeth, Mr. Buxton put his 
hand on his arm. 

“Good Mr. Norris,” he said, “you have been very patient with 
me. I have clacked this night like an old wife, and you have 
borne with me: and now I ask your pardon again. But I do 
pray God that He may show you light and bring you to the true 
Church; for there is no rest elsewhere.” 

Anthony thanked him for his good wishes. 

“Indeed,” he said, too, “I am grateful for all that you have 
said. You have shown me light, I think, on some things, and I 
ask your prayers.” 

“I go to Stanfield to-morrow,” said Mr. Buxton; “it is a 
pleasant house, though its master says so, not far from Sir Philip 
Sidney’s: if you would but come and see me there!” 

“TI am getting greatly perplexed,” said Anthony, “and I think 
that in good faith I cannot stay long with the Archbishop; and if 
I leave him how gladly will I come to you for a few days; but 
it must not be till then.” 

“Ah! if you would but make the Spiritual Exercises in my 


304 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


house; I will provide a conductor; and there is nothing that 
would resolve your doubts so quickly.” 

Anthony was interested in this; and asked further details as 
to what these were. 

“Tt is too late,” said Mr. Buxton, “to tell you to-night. I will 
write from Stanfield.” 

Mr. Buxton came downstairs with Anthony to see him on to 
his horse, and they parted with much good-will; and Anthony 
rode home with a heavy and perplexed heart to Lambeth. 


He spent a few days.more pondering; and then determined 
to lay his difficulties before the Archbishop; and resign his posi- 
tion if Grindal thought it well. 

He asked for an interview, and the Archbishop appointed an 
hour in the afternoon at which he would see him in Cranmer’s 
parlour, the room above the vestry which formed part of the 
tower that Archbishop Cranmer had added to Lambeth House. 

Anthony, walking up and down in the little tiled cloisters by 
the creek, a few minutes before the hour fixed, heard organ- 
music rolling out of the chapel windows; and went in to see who 
was playing. He came in through the vestry, and looking to the 
west end gallery saw there the back of old Dr. Tallis, seated at 
the little positive organ that the late Archbishop had left in his 
chapel, and which the present Archbishop had gladly retained, 
for he was a great patron of music, and befriended many 
musicians when they needed help—Dr. Tallis, as well as Byrd, 
Morley and Tye. There were a few persons in the chapel listen- 
ing, the Reverend Mr. Wilson, one of the chaplains, being among 
them; and Anthony thought that he could not do better than sit 
here a little and quiet his thoughts, which were nervous and 
distracted at the prospect of his coming interview. He heard 
voices from overhead, which showed that the Archbishop was 
engaged; so he spoke to an usher stationed in the vestry, telling 
him that he was ready as soon as the Archbishop could receive 
him, and that he would wait in the chapel; and then made his 
way down to one of the return stalls at the west end, against 
the screen, and took his seat there. 

This February afternoon was growing dark, and the only 
lights in the chapel were those in the organ loft; but there was 
still enough daylight outside to make the windows visible—those 
famous windows of Morton’s, which, like those in King’s Chapel, 

Cambridge, combined and interpreted the Old and New Testa- 


A STRIFE OF TONGUES 305 


ments by an ingenious system of types and antitypes, in the 
manner of the “Biblia Pauperum.” There was then only a 
single subject in each light; and Anthony let his eyes wander 
musingly to and fro in the east window from the central figure of 
the Crucified to the types on either side, especially to a touching 
group of the unconscious Isaac carrying the wood for his own 
death, as Christ His Cross. Beneath, instead of the old stately 
altar glowing with stuffs and precious metals and jewels which 
had once been the heart of this beautiful shrine, there stood now 
a plain solid wooden table that the Archbishop used for the 
Communion. Anthony looked at it, and sighed a little to himself. 
Did the altar and the table then mean the same thing? 

Meanwhile the glorious music was rolling overhead in the high 
vaulted roof. The old man was extemporising; but his manner 
was evident even in that; there was a simple solemn phrase that 
formed his theme, and round this adorning and enriching it moved 
the grave chords. On and on travelled the melody, like the flow 
of a broad river; now sliding steadily through a smiling land of 
simple harmonies, where dwelt a people of plain tastes and solid 
virtues; now passing over shallows where the sun glanced and 
played in the brown water among the stones, as light arpeggio 
chords rippled up and vanished round about the melody; now 
entering a land of mighty stones and caverns where the echoes 
rang hollow and resonant, as the counterpoint began to rumble 
and trip like boulders far down out of sight, in subaqueous gloom; 
now rolling out again and widening, fuller and deeper as it went, 
moving in great masses towards the edge of the cataract that lies 
like a line across the landscape: it is inevitable now, the crash 
must come;—a chord or two pausing,—pausing;—and then the 
crash, stupendous and sonorous. 

Then on again through elaborate cities where the wits and 
courtiers dwell, and stately palaces slide past upon the banks, 
and barges move upon its breast, on to the sea—that final full! 
close that embraces and engulfs all music, all effort, all doubts 
and questionings, whether in art or theology, all life of intellect, 
heart or will—that fathomless eternal deep from which all comes 
and to which all returns, that men call the Love of God. 


Anthony stirred in his seat; he had been here ten minutes, 
proposing to take his restless thoughts in hand and quiet them; 
and, lo! it had been done for him by the master who sat over- 
head. Here he, for the moment, remained, ready for anything— 


306 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


glad to take up the wood and bear it to the Mount of Sacrifice— 
content to be carried on in that river of God’s Will to the repose 
of God’s Heart—content to dwell meantime in the echoing caverns 
of doubt—in the glancing shadows and lights of an active life— 
in his own simple sunlit life in the country—or even to plunge 
over the cataract down into the fierce tormented pools in the 
dark—for after all the sea lay beyond; and he who commits 
himself to the river is bound to reach it. 

He heard a step, and the usher stood by him. 

“His Grace is ready, Master Norris.” 

Anthony rose and followed him. 

The Archbishop received him with the greatest kindness. As 
Anthony came in he half rose, peering with his half-blind eyes, 
and smiling and holding out his hands. 

“Come, Master Norris,’ he said, “you are always welcome. 
Sit down;” and he placed him in a chair at the table close by 
his own. 

“Now, what is it?” he said kindly; for the old man’s heart was 
a little anxious at this formal interview that had been requested 
by this favourite young officer of his. 

Then Anthony, without any reserve, told him all; tracing out 
the long tale of doubt by landmarks that he remembered; men- 
tioning the effect produced on his mind by the Queen’s suspension 
of the Archbishop, especially dwelling on the arrest, the examina- 
tion and the death of Campion, that had made such a profound 
impression upon him; upon his own reading and trains of thought, 
and the conversations with Mr. Buxton, though of course he did 
not mention his name; he ended by saying that he had little 
doubt that sooner or later he would be compelled to leave the 
communion of the Church of England for that of Rome; and by 
placing his resignation in the Archbishop’s hands, with many 
expressions of gratitude for the unceasing kindness and considera- 
tion that he had always received at his hands. 

There was silence when he had finished. A sliding panel in 
the wall near the chapel had been pushed back, and the mellow 
music of Dr. Tallis pealed softly in, giving a sweet and melodious 
background, scarcely perceived consciously by either of them, 
and yet probably mellowing and softening their modes of expres- 
sion during the whole of the interview. 

‘Mr. Norris,’ said the Archbishop at last, “I first thank you 
for the generous confidence you have shown towards me: and I 
shall put myself under a further obligation to you by accepting 


A STRIFE OF TONGUES 307 


your resignation: and this I do for both our sakes. For yours, 
because, as you confess, this action of the Queen’s—(I neither 
condemn nor excuse it myself)—this action has influenced your 
thoughts: therefore you had best be removed from it to a place 
where you can judge more quietly. And I accept it for my own 
sake too; for several reasons that I need not trouble you with. 
But in doing this, I desire you, Mr. Norris, to continue to draw 
your salary until Midsummer:—nay, nay, you must let me have 
my say. You are at liberty to withdraw as soon as you have wound 
up your arrangements with Mr. Somerdine; he will now, as 
Yeoman of the Horse, have your duties as well as his own; for I 
do not intend to have another Gentleman of the Horse. As 
regards an increase of salary for him, that can wait until I see 
him myself. In any case, Mr. Norris, I think you had better 
withdraw before Mid-Lent Sunday. 

‘“‘And now for your trouble. I know very well that I cannot 
be of much service to you. I am no controversialist. But I 
must bear my witness. This Papist with whom you have had talk 
seems a very plausible fellow. His arguments sound very plain 
and good; and yet I think you could prove anything by them. 
They seem to me like that openwork embroidery such as you see 
on Communion linen sometimes, in which the pattern is formed 
by withdrawing certain threads. He has cleverly omitted just 
those points that would ruin his argument; and he has made a 
pretty design. But any skilful advocate could make any other de- 
sign by the same methods. He has not thought fit to deal with such 
words of our Saviour as what He says on Tradition; with 
what St. Paul says in his Epistle to the Colossians, in the sec- 
ond chapter, concerning all those carnal ordinances which were 
done away by Christ, but which have been restored by the Pope 
in his despite; he does not deal with those terrible words con- 
cerning the man of sin and the mystery of iniquity. In fact, 
he takes just one word that Christ let fall about His Kingdom, 
and builds this great edifice upon it. You might retort to him 
in a thousand ways such as these. Bishop Jewell, in his book, 
as you know, deals with these questions and many more; far 
more fully than it is possible for you and me even to dream of 
doing. Nay, Mr. Norris; the only argument I can lay before 
you is this. There are difficulties and troubles everywhere; that 
there are such in the Church of England, who would care to 
deny? that there are equally such, aye, and far more, in the 
Church of Rome, who would care to deny, either? Meanwhile, 


308 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the Providence of God has set you here and not there. What- 
ever your difficulties are here, are not of your choosing; but if 
you fly there (and I pray God you will not) there they will be. 
Be content, Master Norris; indeed you have a goodly heritage; 
be content with it; lest losing that you lose all.” 

Anthony was greatly touched by this moderate and courteous 

line that the Archbishop was taking. He knew well in his heart 
that the Church of Rome was, in the eyes of this old man, a false 
and deceitful body, for whom there was really nothing to be 
said. Grindal, in his travels abroad during the Marian troubles, 
had been deeply attracted by the Genevan theology, with whose 
professors he had never wholly lost touch; and Anthony guessed 
what an effort it was costing him, and what a strain it was on 
his conscience, thus to combine courtesy with faithfulness to what 
he believed to be true. . 
' Grindal apparently feared he had sacrificed his convictions, 
for he presently added: ‘‘You know, Mr. Norris, that I think 
very much worse of Papistry than I have expressed; but I have 
refrained because I think. that would not help you; and I desire 
to do that more than to relieve myself.” 

Anthony thanked him for his gentleness; saying that he quite 
understood his motives in speaking as he had done, and was 
deeply obliged to him for it. 

The Archbishop, however, as indeed were most of the English 
Divines of the time, was far more deeply versed in destructive 
than constructive theolgy; and, to Anthony’s regret, was presently 
beginning in that direction. 

“Tt is beyond my imagination, Mr. Norris,” he said, “that any 
who have known the simple Gospel should return to the dark- 
ness. See here,” he went on, rising, and fumbling among his 
books, “I have somewhere here what they call an Indulgence.” 

He searched for a few minutes, and presently shook out of the 
leaves of Jewell’s book a paper which he peered at, and then 
pushed over to Anthony. 

It was a little rectangular paper, some four or five inches long; 
bearing a figure of Christ, wounded, with His hands bound to- 
gether before Him, and the Cross with the superscription rising 
behind. In compartments on either side were instruments of the 
Passion, the spear, and the reed with the sponge, with other 
figures and emblems. Anthony spelt out the inscription. 

“Read it aloud, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop. 

“*To them,’”’ read Anthony, “‘ ‘that before this image of pity 


A STRIFE OF TONGUES 309 


devoutly say five paternosters, five aves and a credo, piteously 
beholding these arms of Christ’s Passion, are granted thirty-two 
thousand seven hundred and fifty-five years of pardon.’ ” 

“Now, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “have you considered 
that it is to that kind of religion that you are attracted? I will 
not comment on it; there is no need.” 

“Your Grace,” said Anthony slowly, aie the paper down, 
“T need not say, I think, that this kind of thing is deeply dis- 
tasteful to me too. Your Grace cannot dislike it more than I do. 
But then I do not understand it; I do not know what indulgences 
mean; I only know that were they as mad and foolish as we 
Protestants think them, no truthful or good man could remain a 
Papist for a day; but then there are many thoughtful and good 
men Papists; and I conclude from that that what we think the 
indulgences to be, cannot be what they really are. There must 
be some other explanation. 

“And again, my lord, may I add this? If I were a Turk I 
should find many things in the Christian religion quite as re- 
pellent to me; for example, how can it be just, I should ask, that 
the death of an innocent man, such as Christ was, should be my 
salvation? How, again, is it just that faith should save? Surely 
one who has sinned greatly ought to do something towards his 
forgiveness, and not merely trust to another. But you, my lord, 
would tell me that there are explanations of these difficulties, and 
of many more too, of which I should gradually understand more 
and more after I was a Christian. Or again, it appears to me 
even now, Christian as I am, judging as a plain man, that pre- 
destination contradicts free-will; and no explanation can make 
them both reasonable. Yet, by the grace of God, I believe all 
these doctrines and many more, not because I understand them, 
for I do not; but because I believe that they are part of the 
Revelation of God. It is just so, too, with the Roman Catholic 
Church. I must not take this or that doctrine by itself; but I 
must make up my mind whether or no it is the one only Catholic 
Church, and then I shall believe all that she teaches, because 
she teaches it, and not because I understand it. You must for- 
give my dulness, my lord; but I am but a layman, and can only 
say what I think in simple words.” 

“But we must judge of a Christian body by what that body 
teaches,” said the Archbishop. “On what other grounds are you 
drawn to the Papists, except by what they teach?”’ 

“Ves, your Grace,” said Anthony, “I do judge of the general 


3TO}. BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


body of doctrine, and of the effect upon the soul as a whole; 
but that is not the same as taking each small part, and making 
all hang upon that.” 

“Well, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “I do not think we 
can talk much more now. It is new to me that these difficulties 
are upon you. But I entreat you to talk to me again as often 
as you will; and to others also—Dr. Redmayn, Mr. Chambers 
and others will be happy if they can be of any service to you 
in these matters: for few things indeed would grieve me more 
than that you should turn Papist.” 

Anthony thanked the-Archbishop very cordially for his kind- 
ness, and, after receiving his blessing, left his presence. He had 
two or three more talks with him before he left, but his difficulties 
were in no way resolved. The Archbishop had an essentially 
Puritan mind, and could not enter into Anthony’s point of view 
at all. It may be roughly said that from Grindal’s standpoint all 
turned on the position and responsibility of the individual towards 
the body to which he belonged: and that Anthony rather looked 
at the corporate side first and the individual second. Grindal 
considered; for example, the details of the Catholic religion in 
reference to the individual, asking whether he could accept this 
or that: Anthony’s tendency was rather to consider the general 
question first, and to take the difficulties in his stride afterwards. 
Anthony also had interviews with the Archdeacon and chaplain 
whom Grindal had recommended; but these were of even less 
service to him, as Dr. Redmayn was so frankly contemptuous, and 
Mr. Chambers so ignorant, of the Romish religion that Anthony 
felt he could not trust their judgment at all. 

In the meanwhile, during this last fortnight of Anthony’s 
Lambeth life, he received a letter from Mr. Buxton, ex- 
plaining what were the Spiritual Exercises to which he had 
referred, and entreating Anthony to come and stay with him at 
Stanfield. 

“Now come, dear Mr. Norris,” he wrote, ‘‘as soon as you leave 
the Archbishop’s service; I will place three or four rooms at your 
disposal, if you wish for quiet; for I have more rooms than I 
know what to do with; and you shall make the Exercises if you 
will with some good priest. They are a wonderful method of 
meditation and prayer, designed by Ignatius Loyola (one day 
doubtless to be declared saint), for the bringing about a resolution 
of all doubts and scruples, and so clearing the eye of the soul 
that she discerns God’s Will, and so strengthening her that she 


A STRIFE OF TONGUES 311 


gladly embraces it. And that surely is what you need just now 
in your perplexity.” 

The letter went on to describe briefly the method followed, 
and ended by entreating him again to come and see him. 
Anthony answered this by telling him of his resignation of his 
post at Lambeth, and accepting his invitation; and he arranged 
to spend the last three weeks before Easter at Stanfield, and to 
go down there immediately upon leaving Lambeth. He deter- 
mined not to go to Great Keynes first, or to see Isabel, lest his 
resolution should be weakened. Already, he thought, his motives 
were sufficiently mixed and perverted without his further aggra- 
vating their earthly constituents. 

He wrote to his sister, however, telling her of his decision to 
leave Lambeth; and adding that he was going to stay with a 
friend until Easter, when he hoped to return to the Dower House, 
and take up his abode there for the present. He received what 
he thought a very strange letter in return, written apparently 
under excitement strongly restrained. He read in it a very real 
affection for himself, but a certain reserve in it too, and even 
something of compassion; and there was a sentence in it that 
above all others astonished him. 

“J. M. has been here, and is now gone to Douai. Oh! dear 
brother, some time no doubt you will tell us all. I feel so certain 
that there is much to explain.” 

Had she then guessed his part in the priest’s release? Anthony 
wondered; but at any rate he knew, after his promise to the 
Queen, that he must not give her any clue. He was also sur- 
prised to hear that James had been to Great Keynes. He had 
inquired for him at the Tower on the Monday after his visit to 
Greenwich, and had heard that Mr. Maxwell was already gone 
out of England. He had not then troubled to write again, as 
he had no doubt but that his message to Lady Maxwell, which 
he had sent in his note to Isabel, had reached her; and that 
certainly she, and probably James too, now knew that he had 
been an entirely unconscious and innocent instrument in the 
priest’s arrest. But that note, as has been seen, never reached 
its destination. Lady Maxwell did not care to write to the 
betrayer of her son; and Isabel on the one hand hoped and 
believed now that there was some explanation, but on the other 
did not wish to ask for it again, since her first request had been 
met by silence. 

As the last days of his life at Lambeth were coming to an end, 


312 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Anthony began to send off his belongings on pack-horses to Great 
Keynes; and by the time that the Saturday before Mid-Lent 
Sunday arrived, on which he was to leave, all had gone except his 
own couple of horses and the bags containing his personal 
luggage. 

His last interview with the Archbishop affected him very 
greatly. 

He found the old man waiting for him, walking up and down 
Cranmer’s parlour in an empty part of the room, where there 
was no danger of his falling. He peered anxiously at Anthony 
as he entered. 

“Mr. Norris,” he said, “you are greatly on my mind. I fear 
I have not done my duty to you. My God has taken away the 
great charge he called me to years ago, to see if I were fit or not 
for the smaller charge of mine own household, and not even that 
have I ruled well.” 

Anthony was deeply moved. 

“My lord,” he said, “if I may speak plainly to you, I would 
say that to my mind ‘the strongest argument for the Church of 
England is that she brings forth piety and goodness such as I 
have seen here. If it were not for that, I should no longer be 
perplexed.” 

Grindal held up a deprecating hand. 

“Do not speak so, Mr. Norris. That grieves me. However, I 
beseech you to forgive me for all my remissness towards you, 
and I wish to tell you that, whatever happens, you shall never 
cease to have an old man’s prayers. You have been a good and 
courteous servant to me always—more than that, you have been 
my loving friend—I might almost say my son: and that, in a 
world that has cast me off and forgotten me, I shall not easily 
forget. God bless you, my dear son, and give you His light and 
grace.” 

When Anthony rode out of the gateway half an hour later, 
with his servant and luggage behind him, it was only with the 
greatest difficulty that he could keep from tears as he thought 
of the blind old man, living in loneliness and undeserved disgrace, 
whom he was leaving behind him. 


CHAPTER XIII 
THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 


ANTHONY found that Mr. Buxton had seriously underestimated 
himself in describing his position as that of a plain country 
gentleman. Stanfield was one of the most beautiful houses that 
he had ever seen. On the day after his arrival, his host took 
him all over the house, at his earnest request, and told him its 
story; and as they passed from room to room, again and again 
Anthony found himself involuntarily exclaiming at the new and 
extraordinary beauties of architecture and furniture that revealed 
themselves. 

The house itself had been all built in the present reign, before 
its owner had got into trouble; and had been fitted throughout 
on the most lavish scale, with furniture of German as well as of 
English manufacture. Mr. Buxton was a collector of pictures 
and other objects of art; and his house contained some of the very 
finest specimens of painting, bronzes, enamels, plate and wood- 
work procurable from the Continent. 

The house was divided into two sections; the chief living rooms 
were in a long suite looking to the south on to the gardens, with 
a corridor on the north side running the whole length of the 
house on the ground-floor, from which a staircase rose to a similar 
corridor or gallery on the first floor. The second section of the 
house was a block of some half-dozen smallish rooms, with a 
private staircase of their own, and a private entrance and little 
walled garden as well in front. The house was mostly panelled 
throughout, and here and there hung pieces of magnificent tapes- 
try and cloth of arras. All was kept, too, with a care that was 
unusual in those days—the finest woodwork was brought to a high 
polish, as well as all the brass utensils and steel fireplates and 
dogs and such things. No two rooms were alike; each possessed 
some marked characteristic of its own—one bedroom, for example, 
was distinguished by its fourpost bed with its paintings on the 
canopy and head—another, by its little two-light high window 
with Adam and Eve in stained glass; another with a little square- 


313 


314 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


window containing a crucifix, which was generally concealed by 
a sliding panel; another by two secret cupboards over the fire- 
place, and its recess fitted as an oratory; another by a mag- 
nificent piece of tapestry representing Saint Clara and Saint 
Thomas of Aquin, each holding a monstrance, with a third great 
monstrance in the centre, supported by angels. 

Downstairs the rooms were on the same scale of magnificence. 
The drawing-room had an exquisite wooden ceiling with great 
pendants elaborately carved; the dining-room was distinguished 
by its glass, containing a collection of coats-of-arms of many of 
Mr. Buxton’s friends who had paid him visits; the hall by its 
vast fire-place and the tapestries that hung round it. 

The exterior premises were scarcely less remarkable; a fine 
row of stables, and kennels where greyhounds were kept, stood 
to the north and the east of the house; but the wonder of the 
country was the gardens to the south. Anthony hardly knew 
what to say for admiration as he went slowly through these with 
his host, on the bright spring morning, after visiting the house. 
These were elaborately laid out, and under Mr. Buxton’s personal 
direction, for he was one of the few people in England at this 
time who really understood or cared for the art. His avenue of 
small clipped limes running down the main walk of the garden, 
his yew-hedges fashioned with battlements and towers; his great 
garden house with its vane; his fantastic dial in the fashion of 
a tall striped pole surmounted by a dragon;—these were the 
astonishment of visitors; and it was freely said that had not Mr. 
Buxton been exceedingly adroit he would have paid the penalty 
of his magnificence and originality by being forced to receive a 
royal visit—a favour that would have gone far to impoverish, 
if not to ruin him. The chancel of the parish-church overlooked 
the west end of his lime-avenue, while the east end of the garden 
terminated in a great gateway, of stone posts and wrought iron 
gates that looked out to the meadows and farm buildings of the 
estate, and up to which some day no doubt a broad carriage 
drive would be laid down. But at present the sweep of the 
meadows was unbroken. 

It was to this beautiful place that Anthony found hina 
welcomed. His host took him at once on the evening of his 
arrival to the west block, and showed him his bedroom—that 
with the little cupboards and the oratory recess; and then, taking 
him downstairs again, showed him a charming little oak parlour, 
which he told him would be altogether at his private service. 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 315 


“And you see,” added Mr. Buxton, “in this walled garden in 
front you can have complete privacy, and thus can take the air 
without ever coming to the rest of the house; to which there 
is this one entrance on the ground floor.’”’ And then he showed 
him how the lower end of the long corridor communicated with 
the block. 

“The only partners of this west block,” he added, ‘‘will be the 
two priests—Mr. Blake, my chaplain, and Mr. Robert, who is 
staying with me a week or two; and who, I hope, will conduct 
you through the Exercises, as he is very familiar with them. 
You will meet them both at supper: of course they will be both 
dressed as laymen. The Protestants blamed poor Campion for 
that, you know; but had he not gone in disguise, they would only 
have hanged him all the sooner. I like not hypocrisy.” 

Anthony was greatly impressed by Father Robert when he 
met him at supper. He was a tall and big man, who seemed 
about forty years of age, with a long square-jawed face, a pointed 
beard and moustache, and shrewd penetrating eyes. He seemed 
to be a man in advance of his time; he was full of reforms and 
schemes that seemed to Anthony remarkably to the point; and 
they were reforms too quite apart from ecclesiasticism, but rather 
such as would be classed in our days under the title of Christian 
Socialism. 

For example, he showed a great sympathy for the condition 
of the poor and outcast and criminals; and had a number of very 
practical schemes for their benefit. 

“Two things,” he said, in answer to a question of Anthony’s, 
“T would do to-morrow if I had the power. First I would allow 
of long leases for fifty and a hundred years. Everywhere the 
soil is becoming impoverished; each man squeezes out of it as 
much as he can, and troubles not to feed the land or to care for 
it beyond his time. Long leases, I hold, would remedy this. It 
would encourage the farmer to look before him and think of his 
sons and his sons’ sons. And second, I would establish banks for 
poor men. There is many a man now a-begging who would be 
living still in his own house, if there had been some honest man 
whom he could have trusted to keep his money for him, and, 
maybe, give him something for the loan of it: for in these days, 
when there is so much enterprise, money has become, as it were, 
a living thing that grows; or at the least a tool that can be used; 
and therefore, when it is lent, it is right that the borrower should 
pay a little for it. This is not the same as the usury that Holy 


316 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Church so rightly condemns: at least, I hold not, though some, 
I know, differ from me.” 

After supper the talk turned on education: here, too, the priest 
had his views. 

“But you are weary of hearing me!” he said, in smiling 
apology. “You will think me a schoolmaster.” 

“And I pray you to consider me your pupil,” said Mr. Buxton. 
The priest made a little deprecating gesture. 

“First, then,” he said, “I would have a great increase of 
grammar schools. It is grievous to think of England as she will 
be when this generation grows up: the schooling was not much 
before; but now she has lost first the schools that were kept 
by Religious, and now the teaching that the chantry-priests used 
to give. But this perhaps may turn to advantage; for when the 
Catholic Religion is re-established in these realms, she will find 
how sad her condition is; and, I hope, will remedy it by a better 
state of things than before—first, by a great number of grammar 
schools where the lads can be well taught for small fees, and 
where many scholarships will be endowed; and then, so great 
will be the increase of learning, as I hope, that we shall need to 
have a third university, to which I should join a third Arch- 
bishoprick, for the greater dignity of both; and all this I should 
set in the north somewhere, Durham or Newcastle, maybe.” 

He spoke, too, with a good deal of shrewdness of the increase 
of highway robbery, and the remedies for it; remarking that, 
although in other respects the laws were too severe, in this matter 
their administration was too lax; since robbers of gentle birth 
could generally rely on pardon. He spoke of the Holy Brother- 
hood in Spain (with which country he seemed familiar), and its 
good results in the putting down of violence. 

Anthony grew more and more impressed by this man’s practical 
sense and ability; but less drawn to him in consequence as his 
spiritual guide. He fancied that true spirituality could scarcely 
exist in this intensely practical nature. When supper was over, 
and the priests had gone back to their rooms, and his host and he 
were seated before a wide blazing hearth in Mr. Buxton’s own 
little room downstairs, he hinted something of the sort. Mr. 
Buxton laughed outright. 

“My dear friend,” he said, “you do not know these Jesuits 
(for of course you have guessed that he is one); their training 
and efficiency is beyond all imagining. In a week from now you 
will be considering how ever Father Robert can have the heart 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 317 


to eat his dinner or say ‘good-day’ with such a spiritual vision 
and insight as he has. You need not fear. Like the angel in the 
Revelation, he will call you up to heaven, hale you to the abyss 
and show you things to come. And, though you may not believe 
it, it is the man’s intense and simple piety that makes him so 
clear-sighted and practical; he lives so close to God that God’s 
works and methods, so perplexing to you and me, are plain 
to him.” 

They went on talking together for a while. Mr. Buxton said 
that Father Robert had thought it best for Anthony not to enter 
Retreat until the Monday evening; by which time he could have 
sufficiently familiarised himself with his new surroundings, so as 
not to find them a distraction during his spiritual treatment. 
Anthony agreed to this. Then they talked of all kinds of things. 
His host told him of his neighbours; and explained how it was 
that he enjoyed such liberty as he did. 

‘You noticed the church, Mr. Norris, did you not, at your 
arrival, overlooking the garden? It is a great advantage to me 
to have it so close. I can sit in my own garden and hear the 
Genevan thunders from within. He preaches so loud that I 
might, if I wished, hear sermons, and thus satisfy the law and his 
Reverence; and at the same time not go inside an heretical 
meeting-house, and thus satisfy my own conscience and His 
Holiness. But I fear that would not have saved me, had I not 
the ear of his Reverence. I will tell you how it was. When the 
laws began to be enforced hereabouts, his Reverence came to see 
me; and sat in that very chair that you now occupy. 

“T hear,’ said he, cocking his eye at me, ‘that her Grace is 
becoming strict, and more careful for the souls of her subjects.’ 

“TY agreed with him, and said I had heard as much. 

“The fine is twenty pounds a month,’ says he, ‘for recusancy,’ 
and then he looks at me again. 

“At first I did not catch his meaning; for, as you have noticed, 
Mr. Norris, I am but a dull man in dealing with these sharp and 
subtle Protestants: and then all at once it flashed across me. 

“““Ves, your Reverence,’ I said, ‘and it will be the end of poor 
gentlemen like me, unless some kind friend has pity on them. 
How happy I am in having you!’ I said, ‘I have never yet shown 
my appreciation as I should: and I propose now to give you, to 
be applied to what purposes you will, whether the sustenance of 
the minister or anything else, the sum of ten pounds a month; 
so long as I am not troubled by the Council. Of course, if I 


318 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


should be fined by the Council, I shall have to drop my apprecia- 
tion for six months or so.’ 

“Well, Mr. Norris, you will hardly believe it, but the old 
doctor opened his mouth and gulped and rolled his eyes, like a 
trout taking a fly; and I was never troubled until fifteen months 
ago, when they got at me in spite of him. But he has lost, you 
see, a matter of one hundred and fifty pounds while I have been 
at Wisbeach; and I shall not begin to appreciate him again for 
another six months; so I do not think I shall be troubled again.” 

Anthony was amazed, and said so. 

“Well,” said the other, “I was astonished too; and should 
never have dreamt of appreciating him in such a manner unless 
he had proposed it. I had a little difficulty with Mr. Blake, who 
told me that it was a lzbellum, and that I should be ashamed to 
pay hush money. But I told him that he might call it what he 
pleased, but that I would sooner pay ten pounds a month and 
be in peace, than twenty pounds a month and be perpetually 
harassed: and Father Robert agrees with me, and so the other is 
content now.” 

The next day, which was Sunday, passed quietly. Mass was 
no doubt said somewhere in the house; though Anthony saw no 
signs of it. He himself attended the reverend doctor’s minis- 
trations in the morning; and found him to be what he had been 
led to expect. 

In the afternoon he walked up and down the lime avenue with 
Father Robert, while the evening prayer and sermon rumbled 
forth through the broken chancel window; and they talked of the 
Retreat and the arrangements. 

“You no doubt think, Mr. Norris,” said the priest, “that I 
shall preach at you in this Retreat, and endeavour to force you 
into the Catholic Church; but I shall do nothing of the kind. The 
whole object of the Exercises is to clear away the false motives 
that darken the soul; to place the Figure of our Redeemer before 
the soul as her dear and adorable Lover and King; and then to 
kindle and inspire the soul to choose her course through the 
grace of God, for the only true final motive of all perfect action, 
—that is, the pure Love of God. Of course I believe, with the 
consent of my whole being, that the Catholic Church is in the 
right; but I shall not for a moment attempt to compel you to 
accept her. The final choice, as indeed the Retreat too, must 
be your free action, not mine.” 

They arranged too the details of the Retreat; and Anthony 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 319 


was shown the little room beyond Father Robert’s bedroom, where 
the Exercises would be given; and informed that another gentle- 
man who lived in the neighbourhood would come in every day for 
them too, but that he would have his meals separately, and that 
Anthony himself would have his own room and the room beneath 
entirely at his private disposal, as well as the little walled garden 
to walk in. 

The next day Mr. Buxton took Anthony a long ride, to in- 
vigorate him for the Retreat that would begin after supper. 
Anthony learned to his astonishment and delight that Mary 
Corbet was a great friend of Mr. Buxton’s. 

“Why, of course I know her,’ he said. “I have known her 
since she was a tiny girl, and threw her mass-book at the minister’s 
face the first time he read the morning prayer. God only knows 
why she was so wroth with the man for differing from herself on 
a point that has perplexed the wisest heads: but at any rate, wroth 
she was, and bang went her book. I had to take her out, and 
she was spitting like a kitten all down the aisle when the dog 
puts his head into the basket. 

“““What’s that man doing here?’ she screamed out; ‘where’s 
the altar and the priest?’ And then at the door, as luck would 
have had it, she saw that Saint Christopher was gone; and she 
began bewailing and bemoaning him until you’d have thought 
he’d have been bound to come down from heaven, as he did 
once across the dark river, and see what in the world the crying 
child wanted with him.” 


They came about half-way in their ride through the village of 
Penshurst; and on reaching the Park turned off under the beeches 
towards the house. 

“We have not time to go in,” said Mr. Buxton, “but I hope 
you will see the house sometime; it is a pattern of what a house 
should be; and has a pattern master.” 

As they came up to the Edwardine Gate-house, a pleasant- 
faced, quietly-dressed gentleman came riding out alone. 

“Why, here he is!” said Mr. Buxton, and greeted him with 
great warmth, and made Anthony known to him. 

“T am delighted to know Mr. Norris,” said Sidney, with that 
keen friendly look that was so characteristic of him. “I have 
heard of him from many quarters.” 

He entreated them to come in; but Mr. Buxton said they 
had not time; but would if they might just glance into the great 


320 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


court. So Sidney took them through the gate-house and pointed 
out one or two things of interest from the entrance, the roof of 
the Great Hall built by Sir John de Pulteney, the rare tracery 
in its windows and the fine living-rooms at one side. 

“TI thank God for it every day,” said Sidney gravely. “TI can- 
not imagine why He should have given it me. I hope I am not 
fool enough to disparage His gifts, and pretend they are nothing: 
indeed, I love it with all my heart. I would as soon think of call- 
ing my wife ugly or a shrew.” 

“That is a good man and a gentleman,” said Mr. Buxton, as 
they rode away at last in the direction of Leigh after leaving 
Sidney to branch off towards Charket, ‘and I do not know why 
he is not a Catholic. And he is a critic and a poet, men say, too.” 

‘Have you read anything of his?” asked Anthony. 

“Well,” said the other, “to tell the truth, I have tried to read 
some sheets of his that he wrote for his sister, Lady Pembroke. 
He calls it ‘Arcadia’; I do not know whether it is finished or ever 
will be. But it seemed to me wondrous dull. It was full of 
shepherds and swains and nymphs, who are perpetually eating 
collations which Phcebus or sunburnt Autumn, and the like, pro- 
vides of his bounty; or any one but God Almighty; or else they 
are bathing and surprising one another all day long. It is all 
very sweet and exquisite, I know; and the Greece, where they 
all live and love one another, must be a very delightful country, 
as unlike this world as it is possible to imagine; but it wearies 
me. I like plain England and plain folk and plain religion and 
plain fare; but then I am a plain man, as I tell you so often.” 

As the afternoon sun drew near setting, they came through 
Tonbridge. | 

‘““Now, what can a man ask more,” said Mr. Buxton, as they 
rode through it, “‘than a good town like this? It is not a great 
place, I know, with solemn buildings and wide streets; neither 
is it a glade or a dell; but it is a good clean English town; and 
I would not exchange it for Arcadia or Athens either.” 

Stanfield lay about two miles to the west; and on their way 
out, Mr. Buxton talked on about the country and its joys and 
its usefulness. 

“Over there,” he said, pointing towards Eridge, ‘‘was the first 
cannon made in England. I do not know if that is altogether 
to its credit, but it at least shows that we are not quite idle and 
loutish in the country. Then all about here is the iron; the very 
stirrups you ride in, Mr. Norris, most likely came from the ground 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 321 


beneath your feet; but it is sad to see all the woods cut down 
for the smelting of it. All these places for miles about here, and 
about Great Keynes too, are all named after the things of forestry 
and hunting. Buckhurst, Hartfield, Sevenoaks, Forest Row, and 
the like, all tell of the country, and will do so long after we are 
dead and gone.” | 

They reached Stanfield, rode past the green and the large piece 
of water there, and up the long village street, and turned into 
the iron gates beyond the church, just as the dusk fell. 

That evening after supper the Retreat began. The conduct of 
the Spiritual Exercises had not reached the elaboration to which 
they have been perfected since; nor, in Anthony’s case, a layman 
and a young man, did Father Robert think fit to apply it even 
in all the details in which it would be used for a priest or for 
one far advanced in the spiritual life; but it was severe enough. 

Every evening Father Robert indicated the subject of the fol- 
lowing day’s meditation; and then after private prayer Anthony 
retired to his room. He rose about seven o’clock in the morning, 
and took a little food at eight; then shortly before nine the first 
meditation was given elaborately. The first examination of con- 
science was made at eleven; followed by dinner at half-past. 
From half-past twelve to half-past one Anthony rested in his 
room; then until three he was encouraged to walk in the garden; 
at three the meditation was to be recalled point by point in the 
chapel, followed by spiritual reading; at five o’clock supper was 
served; and at half-past six the meditation was repeated with 
tremendous emphasis and fervent acts of devotion; at half-past 
eight a slight collation was laid in his room; and at half-past nine 
the meditation for the following day was given. Father Robert 
in his previous talks with Anthony had given him instructions as 
to how to occupy his own time, to keep his thoughts fixed and so 
forth. He had thought it wise too not to extend the Retreat for 
longer than a fortnight; so that it was proposed to end it on Palm 
Sunday. Two or three times in the week Anthony rode out by 
himself; and Father Robert was always at his service, besides 
himself coming sometimes to talk to him when he thought the 
strain or the monotony was getting too heavy. 

As for the Exercises themselves, the effect of them on Anthony 
was beyond all description. First the circumstances under which 
they were given were of the greatest assistance to their effective- 
ness. There was every aid that romance and mystery could give. 
Then it was in a strange and beautiful house where everything 


322 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


tended to caress the mind out of all self-consciousness. The little 
panelled room in which the exercises were given looked out over 
the quiet garden, and no sound penetrated there but the far-off 
muffled noises of the peaceful village life, the rustle of the wind 
in the evergreens, and the occasional coo or soft flapping flight 
of a pigeon from the cote in the garden. The room itself was 
furnished with two or three faldstools and upright wooden arm- 
_ chairs of tolerable comfort; a table was placed at the further end, 
on which stood a realistic Spanish crucifix with two tapers always 
burning before it; and a little jar of fragrant herbs. Then there 
was the continual sense of slight personal danger that is such 
a spur to refined natures; here was a Catholic house, of which 
every member was strictly subject to penalties, and above all one 
of that mysterious Society of Jesus, the very vanguard of the 
Catholic army, and of which every member was a picked and 
trained champion. ‘Then there was the amazing enthusiasm, 
experience, and skill of Father Robert, as he called himself; who 
knew human nature as an anatomist knows the structure of the 
human body; to whom the bewildering tangle of motives, good, 
bad and indifferent, in the soul, was as plain as paths in a garden; 
who knew what human nature needed, what it could dispense 
with, what was its power of resistance; and who had at his 
disposal for the storming of the soul an armoury of weapons 
and engines, every specimen of which he had tested and wielded 
over and over again. Little as Anthony knew it, Father Robert, 
during the first two days after his arrival, had occupied himself 
with sounding and probing the lad’s soul, trying his intellect by 
questions that scarcely seemed to be so, taking the temperature of 
his emotional nature by tales and adroit remarks, and watching 
the effect of them; in short, with studying the soul who had come 
for his treatment as a careful doctor examines the health of a new 
patient before he issues his prescription. And then, lastly, there 
were the Exercises themselves, a mighty weapon in any hands; 
and all but irresistible when directed by the skill, and inspired by 
the enthusiasm and sincere piety of such a man as Father Robert. 

The Exercises fell into three parts, each averaging in Anthony’s 
case about five days. First came the Purgative Exercises: the 
object of these was to cleanse and search out the very recesses 
of the soul; as fire separates gold from alloy. 

As Anthony knelt in the little room before the Crucifix day by 
day, it seemed to him as if the old conventional limitations and 
motives of action and control were rolling back, revealing the 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 323 


realities of the spiritual world. The Exercises began with an 
elaborate exposition of the End of man—which may be roughly 
defined as the Glory of God attained through the saving and 
sanctifying of the individual. Every creature of God, then, that 
the soul encounters must be tested by this rule, How far does the 
use of it serve for the final end? For it must be used so far, and 
no farther. Here then was a diagram of the Exercises, given in 
miniature at the beginning. 

Then the great facts that practically all men acknowledge, and 
upon which so few act, were brought into play. Hell, Judgment 
and Death in turn began to work upon the lad’s soul—these 
monstrous elemental Truths that underlie all things. As Father 
Robert’s deep vibrating voice spoke, it appeared to Anthony 
as if the room, the walls, the house, the world, all shrank to 
filmy nothingness before the appalling realities of these things. 
In that strange and profound ‘Exercise of the senses’ he heard 
the moaning and the blasphemies of the damned, of those re- 
bellious free wills that have enslaved themselves into eternal 
bondage by a deliberate rejection of God—he put out his finger 
and tasted the bitterness of their furious tears—the very reek of 
sin came to his nostrils, of that corruption that is in existence 
through sin; nay, he saw the very flaming hells red with man’s 
wrath against his Maker. 

Then he traced back, under the priest’s direction, the Judgment 
through which every soul must pass; he saw the dead, great and 
small, stand before God; the books, black with blotted shame, 
were borne forth by the recording angels and spread before the 
tribunal. His ears tingled with that condemning silence of the 
Judge beyond Whom there is no appeal, from whose sentence 
there is no respite, and from whose prison there is no discharge; 
and rang with that pealing death-sentence at which the angels hide 
their faces, but to which the conscience of the criminal assents 
that it is just. His soul looked out at those whirling hosts on 
either side, that black cloud going down to despair, that radiant 
company hastening to rise to the Uncreated Light in whom there 
is no darkness at all—and cried in piteous suspense to know on 
which side she herself one day would be. 

Then he came yet one step further back still, and told himself 
the story of his death. He saw the little room where he would 
lie, his bed in one corner; he saw Isabel beside the bed; he saw 
himself, white, gasping, convulsed, upon it—the shadows of the 
doctor and the priest were upon the wall—he heard his own 


324 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


quick sobbing breath, he put out his finger and touched his own 
forehead wet with the death-dew—he tasted and smelt the faint 
sickly atmosphere that hangs about a death chamber; and he 
watched the grey shadow of Azrael’s wing creep across his face. 
Then he saw the sheet and the stiff form beneath it; and knew 
that they were his features that were hidden; and that they were 
his feet that stood up stark below the covering. Then he visited 
his own grave, and saw the month-old grass blowing upon it, 
and the little cross at the head; then he dug down through the 
soil, swept away the earth from his coffin-plate; drew the screws 
and lifted the lid. ... 

Then he placed sin beneath the white light; dissected it, 
analysed it, weighed it and calculated its worth, watched its 
development in the congenial surroundings of an innocent soul, 
that is rich in grace and leisure and gifts, and saw the astonishing 
reversal of God’s primal law illustrated in the process of corrup- 
tion—the fair, sweet, fragrant creature passing into foulness. 
He looked carefully at the stages and modes of sin—venial sins, 
those tiny ulcers that weaken, poison and spoil the soul, even if 
they do not slay it—lukewarmness, that deathly slumber that 
engulfs the living thing into gradual death—and, finally, mortal 
sin, that one and only wholly hideous thing. He saw the inde- 
scribable sight of a naked soul in mortal sin; he saw how the 
earth shrank from it, how nature grew silent at it, how the sun 
darkened at it, how hell yelled at it, and the Love of God sick- 
ened at it. 

And so, as the purgative days went by, these tempests poured 
over his soul, sifted through it, as the sea through a hanging 
weed, till all that was not organically part of his life was swept 
away, and he was left a simple soul alone with God. Then the 
second process began. 

To change the metaphor, the canvas was now prepared, scoured, 
bleached and stretched. What is the image to be painted upon 
it? It is the image of Christ. 

Now Father Robert laid aside his knives and his hammer, and 
took up his soft brushes, and began stroke by stroke, with colours 
beyond imagining, to lay upon the eager canvas the likeness of an 
adorable Lover and King. Anthony watched the portrait grow 
day by day with increasing wonder. Was this indeed the Jesus 
of Nazareth of whom he had read in the Gospels? he rubbed his 
eyes and looked; and yet there was no possibility of mistake,— 
line for line it was the same. 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES 325. 


But this portrait grew and breathed and moved, and passed 
through all the stages of man’s life. First it was the Eternal 
Word in the bosom of the Father, the Beloved Son who looked 
in compassion upon the warring world beneath; and offered Him- 
self to the Father who gave Him through the Energy of the 
Blessed Spirit. 

Then it was a silent Maid that he saw waiting upon God, 
offering herself with her lily beside her; and in answer on a 
sudden came the lightning of Gabriel’s appearing, and, lo! the 
Eternal Word stole upon her down a ray of glory. And then at 
last he saw the dear Child born; and.as he looked he was invited 
to enter the stable; and again he put out his hand and touched 
the coarse straw that lay in the manger, and fingered the rough 
brown cord that hung from Mary’s waist, and smelled the sweet 
breath of the cattle, and the burning oil of Joseph’s lantern hung 
against the wall, and shivered as the night wind shrilled under 
the ill-fitting door and awoke the tender Child. 

Then he watched Him grow to boyhood, increasing in wisdom 
and stature, Him who was uncreated Wisdom, and in whose 
Hands are the worlds—followed Him, loving Him more at every 
step, to and from the well at Nazareth with the pitcher on His 
head: saw Him with blistered hands and aching back in the 
carpenter’s shop; then at last went south with Him to Jordan; 
listened with Him, hungering, to the jackals in the wilderness; 
rocked with Him on the high Temple spire; stared with Him at 
the Empires of all time, and refused them as a gift. Then he 
went with Him from miracle to miracle, laughed with joy at the 
leper’s new skin; wept in sorrow and joy with the mother at 
Nain, and the two sisters at Bethany; knelt with Mary and 
kissed His feet; went home with Matthew and Zaccheus, and sat 
at meat with the merry sinners; and at last began to follow silent 
and amazed with face set towards Jerusalem, up the long lonely 
road from Jericho. 

Then, with love that almost burned his heart, he crouched at 
the moonlit door outside and watched the Supper begin. Judas 
pushed by him, muttering, and vanished in the shadows of the 
street. He heard the hush fall as the Bread was broken and the 
Red Wine uplifted; and he hid his face, for he dared not yet 
look with John upon a glory whose veils were so thin. Then he 
followed the silent company through the overhung streets to the 
Temple Courts, and down across the white bridge to the garden 
door. Then, bolder, he drew near, left the eight and the three 


326 : BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


and knelt close to the single Figure, who sobbed and trembled 
and sweated blood. Then he heard the clash of weapons and saw 
the glare of the torches, and longed to warn Him but could not; 
saw the bitter shame of the kiss and the arrest and the flight; 
and followed to Caiaphas’ house; heard the stinging slap; ran to 
Pilate’s house; saw that polished gentleman yawn and sneer; saw 
the clinging thongs and the splashed floor when the scourging was 
over; followed on to Calvary; saw the great Cross rise up at 
last over the heads of the crowd, and heard the storm of hoots 
and laughter and the dry sobs of the few women. Then over his 
head the sun grew dull, and the earth rocked and split, as the 
crosses reeled with their swinging burdens. Then, as the light 
came back, and the earth ended her long shudder, he saw in the 
evening glow that his Lord was dead. Then he followed to the 
tomb; saw the stone set and sealed and the watch appointed; 
and went home with Mary and John, and waited. 

Then on Easter morning, wherever his Lord was, he was there 
too; with Mary in that unrecorded visit; with the women, with 
the Apostles; on the road to Emmaus; on the lake of Galilee; 
and his heart burned with Christ at his side, on lake and road 
and mountain. 

Then at last he stood with the Twelve and saw that end that 
was so glorious a beginning; saw that tender sky overhead gen- 
erate its strange cloud that was the door of heaven; heard far 
away the trumpets cry, and the harps begin to ripple for the new 
song that the harpers had learned at last; and then followed with 
his eyes the Lord whom he had now learned to know and love 
as never before, as He passed smiling and blessing into the heaven 
from which one day He will return... . 


There, then, as Anthony looked on the canvas, was that living, 
moving face and figure. What more could He have done that He 
did not do? What perfection could be dreamed of that was not 
already a thousand times His? 

And when the likeness was finished, and Father Robert stepped 
aside from the portrait that he had painted with such tender 
skill and love, it is little wonder that this lad threw himself down 
before that eloquent vision and cried with Thomas, “My Lord 
and my God!” 


Then, very gently, Father Robert led him through those last 
steps; up from the Illuminative to the Unitive; from the Incar- 


THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES ey, 


nate Life with its warm human interests to that Ineffable Light 
that seems so chill and unreal to those who only see it through 
the clouds of earth, into that keen icy stillness, where only 
favoured and long-trained souls can breathe, up the piercing air 
of the slopes that lead to the Throne, and there in the listening 
silence of heaven, where the voice of adoration itself is silent 
through sheer intensity, where all colours return to whiteness 
and all sounds to stillness, all forms to essence and all creation to 
the Creator, there he let him fall in self-forgetting love and 
wonder, breathe out his soul in one ardent all-containing act, and 
make his choice. 


CHAPTER XIV 
EASTER DAY 


Hoty WEEK passed for Anthony like one of those strange dreams 
in which the sleeper awakes to find tears in his face, and does not 
know whether they are for joy or sorrow. At the end of the 
Retreat that closed on Palm Sunday evening, Anthony had made 
his choice, and told Father Robert. 

It was not the Exercises themselves that were the direct agent, 
any more than were the books he had read: the books had cleared 
away intellectual difficulties, and the Retreat moral obstacles, and 
left his soul desiring the highest, keen to see it, and free to 
embrace it. The thought that he would have to tell Isabel 
appeared to him of course painful and difficult; but it was swal- 
lowed up in the joy of his conversion. He made an arrangement 
with Father Robert to be received at Cuckfield on Easter Eve; 
so that he might have an opportunity of telling Isabel before he 
took the actual step. The priest told him he would give him a 
letter to Mr. Barnes, so that he might be received immediately 
upon his arrival. 

Holy Week, then, was occupied for Anthony in receiving in- 
struction each morning in the little oak parlour from Father 
Robert; and in attending the devotions in the evening with the 
rest of the household. He also heard mass each day. 

It was impossible, of course, to carry out the special devotions 
of the season with the splendour and elaboration that belonged 
to them; but Anthony was greatly impressed by what he saw. 
The tender reverence with which the Catholics loved to linger 
over the details of the Passion, and to set them like precious 
jewels in magnificent liturgical settings, and then to perform these 
stately heart-broken approaches to God with all the dignity and 
solemnity possible, appealed to him in strong contrast to the cold 
and loveless services, as he now thought them, of the Established 
Church that he had left. 

On the Good Friday evening he was long in the parlour with 
Father Robert. 

328 


EASTER DAY 329 


“T am deeply thankful, my son,” he said kindly, “that you have 
been able to come to a decision. Of course I could have wished 
you to enter the Society; but God has not given you a vocation 
to that apparently. However, you can do great work for Him 
aS a Seminary priest; and I am exceedingly glad that you will 
be going to Douai so soon.” 

“IT must just put my affairs in order at home,” he said, “and 
see what arrangements my sister will wish to make; and by 
Midsummer at the latest I shall hope to be gone.” 

“T must be off early to-morrow,” said the priest. ‘‘I have to be 
far from here by to-morrow night, in a house where I shall hope 
to stay until I, too, go abroad again. Possibly we may meet at 
Douai in the autumn. Well, my son, pray for me.” 

Anthony knelt for his blessing, and the priest was gone. 

Presently Mr. Buxton came in and sat down. He was full of 
delight at the result of his scheme; and said so again and again. 

“Who could have predicted it?” he cried. ‘To think that you 
were visiting me in prison fifteen months ago; and now this has 
come about in my house! Truly the Gospel blessing on your 
action has not been long on the way! And that you will be a 
priest, too! You must come and be my chaplain some day; if 
we are both alive and escape the gallows so long. Old Mr. Blake 
is sore displeased with me. I am a trial to him, I know. He will 
hardly speak to me in my own house; I declare I tremble when 
I meet him in the gallery; for fear he will rate me before my, 
servants. I forget what his last grievance is; but I think it is 
something to do with a saint that he wishes me to be devout to; 
and I do not like her. Of course I do not doubt her sanctity; 
but Mr. Blake always confuses veneration and liking. I yield 
to none in my veneration for Saint What’s-her-name; but I do 
not like her; and that is an end of the matter.” 

After a little more talk, Mr. Buxton looked at Anthony curi- 
ously a moment or two; and then said: 

“T wonder you have not guessed yet who Father Robert is; 
for I am sure you know that that cannot be his real name.” 

Anthony looked at him wonderingly. 

“Well, he is in bed now; and will be off early to-morrow; and 
I have his leave to tell you. He is Father Persons, of whom you 
may have heard.” 

Anthony stared. 

“Yes,” said his host, “the companion of Campion. All the 
world supposes him to be in Rome; and I think that not half-a- 


330 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


dozen persons besides ourselves know where he is; but at this 
moment, I assure you, Father Robert Persons, of the Society of 
Jesus, is asleep (or awake, as the case may be) in the little 
tapestry chamber overhead.” 

“Now,” went on Mr. Buxton, “that you are one of us, I will 
tell you quite plainly that Father Robert, as we will continue 
to call him, is in my opinion one of the most devout priests that 
ever said mass; and also one of the most shrewd men that ever 
drew breath; but I cannot follow him everywhere. You will 
find, Mr. Anthony, that the Catholics in England are of two 
kinds: those who seem_to have as their motto the text I quoted 
to you in Lambeth prison; and who count their duty to Cesar 
as scarcely less important than their direct duty to God. I am 
one of these: I sincerely desire above all things to serve her 
Grace, and I would not, for all the world, join in any confederacy 
to dethrone her, for I hold she is my lawful and true Prince. 
Then there is another party who would not hesitate for a moment 
to take part against their Prince, though I do not say to the 
slaying of her, if thereby the Catholic Religion could be estab- 
lished again in these realms. It is an exceedingly difficult point; 
and I understand well how honest and good men can hold that 
view: for they say, and rightly, that the Kingdom of God is the 
first thing in the world, and while they may not commit sin of 
course to further it, yet in things indifferent they must sacrifice 
all for it; and, they add, it is indifferent as to who sits on the 
throne of England; therefore one Prince may be pushed off it, 
so long as no crime is committed in the doing of it, and another 
seated there; if thereby the Religion may be so established again. 
You see the point, Mr. Anthony, no doubt; and how fine and 
delicate it is. Well, Father Robert is, I think, of that party; 
and so are many of the authorities abroad. Now I tell you all 
this, and on this sacred day too, because I may have no other 
opportunity; and I do not wish you to be startled or offended 
after you have become a Catholic. And I entreat you to be 
warm and kindly to those who take other views than your own; 
for I fear that many troubles lie in front of us of our own caus- 
ing: for there are divisions amongst us already: although not at 
all of course (for which I thank God) on any of the saving 
truths of the Faith.” 

Anthony’s excitement on hearing Father Robert’s real name 
was very great. As he lay in bed that night the thought of it 
all would hardly let him sleep. He turned to and fro, trying 


EASTER DAY 331 


to realise that there, within a dozen yards of him, lay the famous 
Jesuit for whose blood all Protestant England was clamouring. 
The name of Persons was still sinister and terrible even to this 
convert; and he could scarcely associate in his thoughts all its 
suggestiveness with that kindly fervent lover of Jesus Christ 
who had led him with such skill and tenderness along the way 
of the Gospel. Others in England were similarly astonished in 
later years to learn that a famous Puritan book of devotions was 
scarcely other than a reprint of Father Persons’ “Christian 
Directory.” 

The following day about noon, after an affectionate good-bye 
to his host and Mr. Blake, Anthony rode out of the iron-wrought 
gates and down the village street in the direction of Great 
Keynes. 

It was a perfect spring-day. Overhead there was a soft blue 
sky with translucent clouds floating in it; underfoot and on all 
sides the mystery of life was beginning to stir and manifest itself. 
The last touch of bitterness had passed from the breeze, and all 
living growth was making haste out into the air. The hedges 
were green with open buds, and bubbling with the laughter and 
ecstasy of the birds; the high sloping overhung Sussex lanes were 
sweet with violets and primroses; and here and there under the 
boughs Anthony saw the blue carpet of bell-flowers spread. 
Rabbits whisked in and out of the roots, superintending and pro- 
visioning the crowded nurseries underground; and as Anthony 
came out, now and again on the higher and open spaces larks 
vanished up their airy spirals of song into the illimitable blue; 
or hung, visible musical specks against a fleecy cloud, pouring 
down their thin cataract of melody. And as he rode, for every 
note of music and every glimpse of colour round him, his own 
heart poured out pulse after pulse of that spiritual essence that 
lies beneath all beauty, and from which all beauty is formed, to 
the Maker of all this and the Saviour of himself. There were 
set wide before him now the gates of a kingdom, compared to 
which this realm of material life round about was but a cramped 
and wintry prison after all. 

How long he had lived in the cold and the dark! he thought; 
kept alive by the refracted light that stole down the steps to 
where he sat in the shadow of death; saved from freezing by the 
warmth of grace that managed to survive the chill about him; 
and all the while the Catholic Church was glowing and pulsating 
with grace, close to him and yet unseen; that great realm full of 


332 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


heavenly sunlight, that was the life of all its members—that 
sunlight that had poured down so steadily ever since the winter 
had rolled away on Calvary; and that ever since then had been 
elaborating and developing into a thousand intricate forms all 
that was capable of absorbing it. One by one the great arts 
had been drawn into that Kingdom, transformed and immortalised 
by the vital and miraculous sap of grace; philosophies, languages, 
sciences, all in turn were taken up and sanctified; and now this 
Puritan soul, thirsty for knowledge and grace, and so long starved 
and imprisoned, was entering at last into her heritage. 

All this was of course but dimly felt in the direct perceptions 
of Anthony; but Father Robert had said enough to open some- 
thing of the vision, and he himself had sufficient apprehension to 
make him feel that the old meagre life was passing away, and a 
new life of unfathomed possibilities beginning. As he rode the 
wilderness appeared to rejoice and blossom like the rose, as the 
spring of nature and grace stirred about and within him; and only 
an hour or two’s ride away lay the very hills and streams of the 
Promised Land. 


About half-past three he crossed the London road, and before 
four o’clock he rode round to the door of the Dower House, 
dismounted, telling the groom to keep his horse saddled. 

He went straight through the hall, calling Isabel as he went, 
and into the garden, carrying his flat cap and whip and gloves: 
and as he came out beneath the holly tree, there she stood before 
him on the top of the old stone garden steps, that rose up between 
earthen flower-jars to the yew-walk on the north of the house. 
He went across the grass smiling, and as he came saw her face 
grow whiter and whiter. She was in a dark serge dress with a 
plain ruff, and a hood behind it, and her hair was coiled in great 
masses on her head. She stood trembling, and he came up and 
took her in his arms tenderly and kissed her, for his news would 
be heavy presently. 

“Why, Isabel,” he said, “you look astonished to see me. But 
I could not well send a man, as I had only Geoffrey with me.” 

She tried to speak, but could not; and looked so overwhelmed 
and terrified that Anthony grew frightened; he saw he must be 
very gentle. 

‘Sit down,” he said, drawing her to a seat beside the path 
at the head of the steps: ‘‘and tell me the news.” 

By a great effort she regained her self-control. 


EASTER DAY 333 


“T did not know when you were coming,” she said tremulously. 
“I was startled.” 

He talked of his journey for a few minutes; and of the kind- 
ness of the friend with whom he had been staying, and the 
beauty of the house and grounds, and so on; until she seemed 
herself again; and the piteous startled look had died out of her 
eyes: and then he forced himself to approach his point; for the 
horse was waiting saddled; and he must get to Cuckfield and 
back by supper if possible. 

He took her hand and played with it gently as he spoke, turn- 
ing over her rings. 

“Isabel,” he said, “I have news to tell you. It is not bad news 
—at least I think not—it is the best thing that has ever come 
to me yet, by the grace of God, and so you need not be anxious 
or frightened. But I am afraid you may think it bad news. 
It—it is about religion, Isabel.” 

He glanced at her, and saw that terrified look again in her 
face: she was staring at him, and her hand in his began to 
twitch and tremble. 

“Nay, nay,” he said, “there is no need to look like that. I 
have not lost my faith in God. Rather, I have gained it. Isabel, 
I am going to be a Catholic.” 

A curious sound broke from her lips; and a look so strange 
came into her face that he threw his arm round her, thinking she 
was going to faint: and he spoke sharply. 

“Isabel, Isabel, what is there to fear? Look at me!” 

Then a cry broke from her white lips, and she struggled to 
stand up. 

“No, no, no! you are mocking me. Oh! Anthony, what have 
I done, that you should treat me like this?” 

“Mocking!” he said, “before God I am not. My horse is 
waiting to take me to the priest.” 

““‘But—but—” she began again. “Oh! then what have you 
done to James Maxwell?” 

“James Maxwell! Why? What do you mean? You got 
my note!” 

““No—no. There was no answer, he said.” 

Anthony stared. 

“Why, I wrote—and then Lady Maxwell! Does she not know, 
and James himself?” 

Isabel shook her head and looked at him wildly. 

“Well, well, that must wait; one thing at a time,” he said. 


334 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“T cannot wait now. I must go to Cuckfield. Ah! Isabel, say 
you understand.” 

Once or twice she began to speak, but failed; and sat panting 
and staring at him. 

“My darling,” he said, “do not look like that: we are both 
Christians still: we at least serve the same God. Surely you 
will not cast me off for this?” 

“Cast you off?” she said; and she laughed piteously and 
sharply; and then was grave again. Then she suddenly cried, 

“Oh, Anthony, swear to me you are not mocking me.” 

“My darling,” he said, “why should I mock you? I have 
made the Exercises, and* have been instructed; and I have here 
a letter to Mr. Barnes from the priest who has taught me; so 
that I may be received to-night, and make my Easter duties: 
and Geoffrey is still at the door holding Roland to take me to 
Cuckfield to-night.” 

“To Cuckfield!” she said. ‘‘You will not find Mr. Barnes 
there.” 

“Not there! why not? Where shall I find him? How do 
you know?” 

“Because he is here,’’ she went on in the same strange voice, 
“at the Hall.” 

“Well,” said Anthony, ‘‘that saves me a journey. Why is 
he here?”’ 

“He is here to say mass to-morrow.” 

SAI? 

““And—and i 

“What is it, Isabel?” 

‘“‘And—to receive me into the Church to-night.” 





The brother and sister walked up and down that soft spring 
evening after supper, on the yew-walk; with the whispers and 
caresses of the scented breeze about them, the shy dewy eyes 
of the stars looking down at them between the tall spires of 
the evergreens overhead; and in their hearts the joy of lovers 
on a wedding-night. 

Anthony had soon told the tale of James Maxwell and Isabel 
had nearly knelt to ask her brother’s pardon for having ever 
allowed even the shadow of a suspicion to darken her heart. 
Lady Maxwell, too, who had come down with her sister to see 
Isabel about some small arrangement, was told; and she too 
had been nearly overwhelmed with the joy of knowing that the 


EASTER DAY | 335 


lad was innocent, and the grief of having dreamed he could be 
otherwise, and at the wholly unexpected news of his conversion; 
but she had gone at last back to the Hall to make all ready for 
the double ceremony of that night, and the Paschal Feast on 
the next day. Mistress Margaret was in Isabel’s room, moving 
about with a candle, and every time that the two reached the 
turn at the top of the steps they saw her light glimmering. 

Then Anthony, as they walked under the stars, told Isabel 
of his great hope that he, too, one day would be a priest, and 
serve God and his countrymen that way. 

“Oh, Anthony,” she whispered, and clung to that dear arm 
that held her own; terrified for the moment at the memory of 
what had been the price of priesthood to James Maxwell. 

“And where shall you be trained for it?” she asked. 

“At Douai: and—Isabel—I think I must go this summer.” 

“This summer!” she said. ‘‘Why ” and she was silent. 

“Anthony,” she went on, “I would like to tell you about 
Hubert.” 

And then the story of the past months came out; she turned 
away her face as she talked; and at last she told him how Hubert 
had come for his answer, a week before his time. 

“Tt was on Monday,” she said. “I heard him on the stairs, 
and stood up as he came in; and he stopped at the door in 
silence, and I could not bear to look at him. I could hear him 
breathing quickly; and then I could not bear to—think of it 
all; and I dropped down into my chair again, and hid my face 
in my arm and burst into crying. And still he said nothing, but 
I felt him come close up to me and kneel down by me; and he 
put his hand over mine, and held them tight; and then he 
whispered in a kind of quick way: 

““T will be what you please; Catholic or Protestant, or what 
you will’; and I lifted my head and looked at him, because it 
was dreadful to hear him—Hubert—say that: and he was whiter 
than I had ever seen him; and then—then he began to wrinkle 
his mouth—you know the way he does when his horse is pulling 
or kicking: and then he began to say all kinds of things: and 
oh! I was so sorry; because he had behaved so well till then.’ 

“What did he say?” asked Anthony quickly. 

“Ah! I have tried to forget,” said Isabel. “I do not want to 
think of him as he was when he was angry and disappointed. 
At last he flung out of the room and down the stairs, and I 
have not seen him since. But Lady Maxwell sent for me the 





336 | BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


same evening an hour later; and told me that she could not live 
there any longer. She said that Hubert had ridden off to London; 
and would not be down again till Whitsuntide; but that she must 
be gone before then. So I am afraid that he said things he ought 
not; but of course she did not tell me one word. And she asked 
me to go with her. And, and—Anthony, I did not know what 
to say; because I did not know what you would do when 
you heard I was a Catholic; I was waiting to tell you when 
you came home—but now—but now Oh, Anthony, my 
darling!” 

At last the two came indoors. Mistress Margaret met them 
in the hall. She looked for a moment at the two; at Anthony 
in his satin and lace and his smiling face over his ruff and his 
steady brown eyes; and Isabel on his arm, with her clear pale 
face and bosom and black high-piled hair, and her velvet and 
lace, and a rope of pearls. 

“Why, ” said the old nun, smiling, “you look a pair of lovers.” 

Then presently the three went together up to the Hall. 





An hour or two passed away; the Paschal moon was rising high 
over the tall yew hedge behind the Italian garden; and the Hall 
lay beneath it with silver roofs and vane; and black shadows 
under the eaves and in the angles. The tall oriel window of 
the Hall looking on to the terrace shone out with candlelight; 
and the armorial coats of the Maxwells and the families they 
had married with glimmered in the upper panes. From the 
cloister wing there shone out above the curtains lines of light 
in Lady Maxwell’s suite of rooms, and the little oak parlour 
beneath, as well as from one or two other rooms; but the rest 
of the house, with the exception of the great hall and the servants’ 
quarters, was all dark. It was as if the interior life had shifted 
westwards, leaving the remainder desolate. The gardens to the 
south were silent, for the night breeze had dropped; and the faint 
ripple of the fountain within the cloister-court was the only sound 
that broke the stillness. And once or twice the sleepy chirp of 
a bird nestling by his mate in the deep shrubberies showed that 
the life of the spring was beating out of sight. 

And then at last the door in the west angle of the terrace, 
between the cloister wing and the front of the house, opened, 
and a flood of mellow light poured out on to the flat pavement. 
A group stood within the little oaken red-tiled lobby; Lady Max- 
well and her sister, slender and dignified in their dark evening 


EASTER DAY aa7 


dresses and ruffs; Anthony holding his cap, and Isabel with a 
lace shawl over her head, and at the back the white hair and 
ruddy face of old Mr. Barnes in his cassock at the bottom of 
the stairs. 

As Mistress Margaret opened the door and looked out, Lady 
Maxwell took Isabel in her arms and kissed her again and again. 
Then Anthony took the old lady’s hand and kissed it, but she 
threw her other hand round him and kissed him too on the fore- 
head. Then without another word the brother and sister came 
out into the moonlight, passed down the side of the cloister 
wing, and turning once to salute the group who waited, framed 
and bathed in golden light, they turned the corner to the Dower 
House. Then the door closed; the oriel window suddenly dark- 
ened, and an hour after the lights in the wing went out, and Max- 
well Hall lay silver and grey again in the moonlight. 

The night passed on. Once Isabel awoke, and saw her win- 
dows blue and mystical and her room full of a dim radiance from 
the bright night outside. It was irresistible, and she sprang out 
of bed and went to the window across the cool polished oak 
floor, and leaned with her elbows on the sill, looking out at the 
square of lawn and the low ivied wall beneath, and the tall trees 
rising beyond ashen-grey and olive-black in the brilliant glory 
that poured down from almost directly overhead, for the Paschal 
moon was at its height above the house. 

And then suddenly the breathing silence was broken by a 
ripple of melody, and another joined and another; and Isabel 
looked and wondered and listened, for she had never heard before 
the music of the mysterious night-flight of the larks all soaring 
and singing together when the rest of the world is asleep. And 
she listened and wondered as the stream of song poured down 
from the wonderful spaces of the sky, rising to far-off ecstasies 
as the wheeling world sank yet further with its sleeping meadows 
and woods beneath the whirling singers; and then the earth for 
a moment turned in its sleep as Isabel listened, and the trees 
stirred as one deep breath came across the woods, and a thrush 
murmured a note or two beside the drive, and a rabbit suddenly 
awoke in the field and ran on to the lawn and sat up and looked 
at the white figure at the window; and far away from the direc- 
tion of Lindfield a stag brayed. 

“So longeth my soul,” whispered Isabel to herself. 

Then all grew still again; the trees hushed; the torrent of 
music, more tumultuous as it neared the earth, suddenly ceased; 


338 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


and Isabel at the window leaned further out and held her hands 
in the bath of light; and spoke softly into the night: 
“Oh, Lord Jesus, how kind Thou are to me!” 


Then at last the morning came, and Christ was risen beyond a 
doubt. 

Just before the sun came up, when all the sky was luminous 
to meet him, the two again passed up and round the corner, and 
into the little door in the angle. There was the same shaded 
candle or two, for the house was yet dark within; and they passed 
up and on together through the sitting-room into the chapel where 
each had made a First Confession the night before, and had 
together been received into the Catholic Church. Now it was 
all fragrant with flowers and herbs; a pair of tall lilies leaned 
their delicate heads towards the altar, as if to listen for the 
soundless Coming in the Name of the Lord; underfoot all about 
the altar lay sprigs of sweet herbs, rosemary, thyme, lavender, 
bay-leaves; with white blossoms scattered over them—a soft car- 
pet for the Pierced Feet; not like those rustling palm-swords 
over which He rode to death last week. The black oak chest 
that supported the altar-stone was glorious in its vesture of 
cloth-of-gold; and against the white-hung wall at the back, behind 
the silver candlesticks, leaned the gold plate of the house, to do 
honour to the King. And presently there stood there the radiant 
rustling figure of the Priest, his personality sheathed and obliter- 
ated beneath the splendid symbolism of his vestments, stiff and 
chinking with jewels as he moved. 

The glorious Mass of Easter Day began. 

“Immolatus est Christus. Itaque epulemur,’ Saint Paul cried 
from the south corner of the altar to the two converts. ‘‘Christ 
our Passover is sacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast, 
but not with the old leaven.” 

“Ouis revolvet nobis lapidem?” wailed the women. ‘Who 
shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?” 

“And when they looked,” cried the triumphant Evangelist, 
“they saw that the stone was rolled away; for it was very great” 
—“erat quippe magnus valde.” 

Here then they knelt at last, these two come home together, 
these who had followed their several paths so resolutely in the 
dark, not knowing that the other was near, yet each seeking 
a hidden Lord, and finding both Him and one another now in 
the full and visible glory of His Face—orto jam sole—for the 


EASTER DAY 339 


Sun of Righteousness had dawned, and there was healing for all 
sorrows in His Wings. 

“Et credo in unam sanctam Catholicam et Apostolicam Eccle- 
siam’’—their hearts cried all together. ‘I believe at last in a 
Catholic Church; one, for it is built on one and its faith is one; 
holy, for it is the Daughter of God and the Mother of Saints; 
Apostolic, for it is guided by the Prince of Apostles and very 
Vicar of Christ.” 

“Et exspecto vitam venturi seculi.”’ “T look for the life of 
the world to come; and I count all things but loss, houses and 
brethren and sisters and father and mother and wife and children 
and lands, when I look to that everlasting life, and Him Who 
is the Way to it. Amen.” 

So from step to step the liturgy moved on with its sonorous 
and exultant tramp, and the crowding thoughts forgot themselves, 
and watched as the splendid heralds went by; the triumphant 
trumpets of Gloria in excelsis had long died away; the proc- 
lamation of the names and titles of the Prince had been made. 
Unum Dominum Jesum Christum; Filium Dei Unigenitum; Ex 
Paire natum ante omnia secula; Deum de Deo; Lumen de 
Lumine; Deum Verum de Deo Vero; Genitum non factum; Con- 
substantialem Paitrt. 

Then His first achievement had been declared; “Per quem 
omnia facta sunt.” 

Then his great and later triumphs; how He had ridden out 
alone from the Palace and come down the steep of heaven in 
quest of His Love; how He had disguised Himself for her sake; 
and by the crowning miracle of love, the mightiest work that 
Almighty God has ever wrought, He was made man; and the 
herald hushed his voice in awe as he declared it, and the people 
threw themselves prostrate in honour of this high and lowly 
Prince; then was recounted the tale of those victories that looked 
so bitterly like failures, and the people held their breath and 
whispered it too; then in rising step after step His last conquests 
were told; how the Black Knight was overthrown, his castle 
stormed and his prison burst; and the story of the triumph of 
the return and of the Coronation and the Enthronement at the 
Father’s Right Hand on high. 

The heralds passed on; and mysterious figures came next, 
bearing Melchisedech’s gifts; shadowing the tremendous event 
that follows on behind. 

After a space or two came the first lines of the bodyguard, 


340 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


the heavenly creatures dimly seen moving through clouds of glory, 
Angels, Dominations, Powers, Heavens, Virtues, and blessed Ser- 
aphim, all crying out together to heaven and earth to welcome 
Him Who comes after in the bright shadow of the Name of the 
Lord; and the trumpets peal out for the last time, ‘Hosanna 
in the highest.” 

Then a hush fell, and presently in the stillness came riding the 
great Personages who stand in heaven about the Throne; first, 
the Queen Mother herself, glorious within and without, moving 
in clothing of wrought gold, high above all others; then, the 
great Princes of the Blood Royal, who are admitted to drink of 
the King’s own Cup, and sit beside Him on their thrones, Peter 
and Paul and the rest, with rugged faces and scarred hands; and 
with them great mitred figures, Linus, Cletus and Clement, with 
their companions. 

And then another space and a tingling silence; the crowds bow 
down like corn before the wind, the far-off trumpets are silent; 
and He comes—He comes! 

On He moves, treading under foot the laws He has made, yet 
borne up by them as on the Sea of Galilee; He Who inhabits 
eternity at an instant is made present; He Who transcends space 
is immanent in material kind; He Who never leaves the Father’s 
side rests on His white linen carpet, held yet unconfined; in the 
midst of the little gold things and embroidery and candle-flames 
and lilies, while the fragrance of the herbs rises about Him. 
There rests the gracious King, before this bending group; the 
rest of the pageant dies into silence and nothingness outside the 
radiant circle of His Presence. There is His immediate priest- 
herald, who has marked out this halting-place for the Prince, 
bowing before Him, striving by gestures to interpret and 
fulfil the silence that words must always leave empty; here 
behind are the adoring human hearts, each looking with closed 
eyes into the Face of the Fairest of the children of men, 
each crying silently words of adoration, welcome and utter 
love. 

The moments pass; the court ceremonies are performed. The 
Virgins that follow the Lamb, Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha and 
the rest step forward smiling, and take their part; the Eternal 
Father is invoked again in the Son’s own words; and at length 
the King, descending yet one further step of infinite humility, 
flings back the last vesture of His outward Royalty and casts 
Himself in a passion of haste and desire into the still and invis- 


EASTER DAY 341 


ible depths of these two quivering hearts, made in His own Image, 
that lift themselves in an agony of love to meet Him... . 


Meanwhile the Easter morning is deepening outside; the sun 
is rising above the yew hedge, and the dew flashes drop by drop 
into a diamond and vanishes; the thrush that stirred and mur- 
mured last night is pouring out his song; and the larks that 
rose into the moonlight are running to and fro in the long meadow 
grass. The tall slender lilies that have not been chosen to grace 
the sacramental Presence-Chamber, are at least in the King’s 
own garden, where He walks morning and evening in the cool 
of the day; and waiting for those who will have seen Him face 
LO face a yt. 

And presently they come, the tall lad and his sister, silent and 
together, out into the radiant sunlight; and the joy of the morn- 
ing and the singing thrush and the jewels of dew and the sweet 
swaying lilies are shamed and put to silence by the joy upon 
their faces and in their hearts. 


yy 


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PAK beurre 


CHAPTER I 
THE COMING OF SPAIN 


THE conflict between the Old Faith and the lusty young Nation 
went steadily forward after the Jesuit invasion; more and more 
priests poured into England; more and more were banished, 
imprisoned and put to death. The advent of Father Holt, the 
Jesuit, to Scotland in 1583 was a signal for a new outburst of 
Catholic feeling, which manifested itself not only in greater de- 
votion to Religion, but, among the ill-instructed and impatient, 
in very questionable proceedings. In fact, from this time onward 
the Catholic cause suffered greatly from the division of its sup- 
porters into two groups; the religious and the political, as they 
may be named. The former entirely repudiated any desire or 
willingness to meddle with civil matters; its members desired to 
be both Catholics and Englishmen; serving the Pope in matters 
of Faith and Elizabeth in matters of civil life; but they suf- 
fered greatly from the indiscretions and fanaticism of the political 
group. The members of that party frankly regarded themselves 
as at war with an usurper and an heretic; and used warlike 
methods to gain their ends; plots against the Queen’s life were 
set on foot; and their promoters were willing enough to die in 
defence of the cause. But the civil Government made the fatal 
mistake of not distinguishing between the two groups; again and 
again loyal Englishmen were tortured and hanged as traitors 
because they shared their faith with conspirators. 

There was one question, however, that was indeed on the 
borderline, exceedingly difficult to answer in words, especially 
for scrupulous consciences; and that was whether they believed 
in the Pope’s deposing power; and this question was adroitly 
and deliberately used by the Government in doubtful cases to 
ensure a conviction. But whether or not it was possible to frame 
a satisfactory answer in words, yet the accused were plain enough 


343 


344 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


in their deeds; and when the Armada at length was launched 
in ’88, there were no more loyal defenders of England than 
the persecuted Catholics. Even before this, however, there had 
appeared signs of reaction among the Protestants, especially 
against the torture and death of Campion and his fellows; and 
Lord Burghley in ’83 attempted to quiet the people’s resentment 
by his anonymous pamphlet, ‘Execution of Justice in England,” 
to which Cardinal Allen presently replied. 

Ireland, which had been profoundly stirred by the military 
expedition from the continent in ’80, at length was beaten and 
slashed into submission-again; and the torture and execution 
of Hurley by martial law, which Elizabeth directed on account 
of his appointment to the See of Cashel, when the judges had 
pronounced there to be ho case against him; and a massacre on 
the banks of the Moy in ’86 of Scots who had come across as 
reinforcements to the Irish;—these were incidents in the black 
list of barbarities by which at last a sort of temporary quiet 
was brought to Ireland. 

In Scottish affairs, the tangle, unravelled even still, of which 
Mary Stuart was the centre, led at last to her death. Walsing- 
ham, with extraordinary skill, managed to tempt her into a 
dangerous correspondence, all of which he tapped on the way: 
he supplied to her in fact the very instrument—an ingeniously 
made beer-barrel—through which the correspondence was made 
possible, and, after reading all the letters, forwarded them to 
their several destinations. When all was ripe he brought his 
hand down on a group of zealots, to whose designs Mary was sup- 
posed to be privy; and after their execution, finally succeeded, 
in ’87, in obtaining Elizabeth’s signature to her cousin’s death- 
warrant. The storm already raging against Elizabeth on the 
Continent, but fanned to fury by this execution, ultimately broke 
in the Spanish Armada in the following year. 

Meanwhile, at home, the affairs of the Church of England 
were far from prosperous. Puritanism was rampant; and a wail 
of dismay was evoked by the new demands of a Commission 
under Whitgift’s guidance, in ’82, whereby the Puritan divines 
were now called upon to assent to the Queen’s Supremacy, the 
Thirty-nine Articles and the Prayer Book. In spite of the oppo- 
sition, however, of Burghley and the Commons, Whitgift, who had 
by this time succeeded to Canterbury upon Grindal’s death, re- 
mained firm; and a long and dreary dispute began, embittered 
further by the execution of Mr. Copping and Mr. Thacker in 


THE COMING OF SPAIN 345 


83 for issuing seditious books in the Puritan cause. A char- 
acteristic action in this campaign was the issuing of a Puritan 
manifesto in ’84, consisting of a brief, well-written pamphlet of 
a hundred and fifty pages, under the title “A Learned Discourse 
of Ecclesiastical Government,” making the inconsistent claim of 
desiring a return to the Primitive and Scriptural model, and at 
the same time of advocating an original scheme, ‘‘one not yet 
handled.” It was practically a demand for the Presbyterian 
system of pastorate and government. To this Dr. Bridges replies 
with a tremendous tome of over fourteen hundred pages, dis- 
charged after three years of laborious toil; and dealing, as the 
custom then was, line by line, with the Puritan attack. To this 
in the following year an anonymous Puritan, under the name of 
Martin Marprelate, retorts with a brilliant and sparkiing riposte 
addressed to ‘“The right puissant and terrible priests, my clergy- 
masters of the Convocation-house,” in which he mocks bitterly 
at the prelates, accusing them of Sabbath-breaking, time-serving, 
and popery,—calling one “dumb and duncetical,’”’ another ‘‘the 
veriest coxcomb that ever wore velvet cap,’’ and summing them 
up generally as ‘“‘wainscot-faced bishops,” “proud, popish, pre- 
sumptuous, profane, paltry, pestilent, and pernicious prelates.” 

The Archbishop had indeed a difficult team to drive; espe- 
cially as his coadjutors were not wholly proof against Martin’s 
jibes. In ’84 his brother of York had been mixed up in a 
shocking scandal; in ’85 the Bishop of Lichfield was accused 
of simony; Bishop Aylmer was continually under suspicion of 
avarice, dishonesty, vanity and swearing; and the Bench as a 
whole was universally reprobated as covetous, stingy and weak. 


In civil maters, England’s relation with Spain was her most 
important concern. Bitter feeling had been growing steadily 
between the two countries ever since Drake’s piracies in the 
Spanish dominions in America; and a gradually increasing fleet 
at Cadiz was the outward sign of it. Now the bitterness was 
deepened by the arrest of English ships in the Spanish ports in 
the early summer of ’85, and the swift reprisals of Drake in the 
autumn; who intimidated and robbed important towns on the 
coast, such as Vigo, where his men behaved with revolting irrev- 
erence in the churches, and Santiago; and then proceeded to visit 
and spoil S. Domingo ‘and Carthagena in the Indies. 

Again in ’87 Drake obtained the leave of the Queen to harass 
Spain once more, and after robbing and burning all the vessels 


346 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


in Cadiz habour, he stormed the forts at Faro, destroyed Armada 
stores at Corunna, and captured the great treasure-ship San 
Felipe. 

Elizabeth was no doubt encouraged in her apparent reckless- 
ness by the belief that with the Netherlands, which she had been 
compelled at last to assist, in a state of revolt, Spain would have 
little energy for reprisals upon England; but she grew more 
and more uneasy when news continued to arrive in England of 
the growing preparations for the Armada; France, too, was now 
so much involved with internal struggles, as the Protestant Henry 
of Navarre was now the-heir to her Catholic throne, that effi- 
cacious intervention could no longer be looked for from that 
quarter, and it seemed at last as if the gigantic Southern power 
was about to inflict punishment upon the little northern kingdom 
which had insulted her with impunity so long. 

In the October of ’87 certain news arrived in England of the 
gigantic preparations being made in Spain and elsewhere: and 
hearts began to beat, and tongues to clack, and couriers to gallop. 
Then as the months went by, and tidings sifted in, there was 
something very like consternation in the country. Men told one 
another of the huge armament that was on its way, the vast ships 
and guns—all bearing down on tiny England, like a bull on a 
terrier. They spoke of the religious fervour, like that of a 
crusade, that inspired the invasion, and was bringing the flower 
of the Spanish nobility against them: the superstitious contrasted 
their own Lion, Revenge, and Elizabeth Jonas with the Spanish 
San Felipe, San Matteo, and Our Lady of the Rosary: the more 
practical thought with even deeper gloom of the dismal parsi- 
mony of the Queen, who dribbled out stores and powder 
so reluctantly, and dismissed her seamen at the least hint of 
delay. 

Yet, little by little, as midsummer came and went, beacons 
were gathering on every hill, ships were approaching efficiency, 
and troops assembling at Tilbury under the supremely incompe- 
tent command of Lord Leicester. 

Among the smaller seaports on the south coast, Rye was one 
of the most active and enthusiastic; the broad shallow bay was 
alive with fishing-boats, and the steep cobbled streets of the 
town were filled all day with a chattering exultant crowd, cheer- 
ing every group of seamen that passed, and that spent long hours 
at the quay watching the busy life of the ships, and predicting 
the great things that should fall when the Spaniards encountered 


THE COMING OF SPAIN 347 


the townsfolk, should the Armada survive Drake’s onslaught 
further west. 

About July the twentieth more definite news began to arrive. 
At least once a day a courier dashed in through the south-west 
gate, with news that all must hold themselves ready to meet the 
enemy by the end of the month; labour grew more incessant and 
excitement more feverish. 

About six o’clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth, as a 
long row of powder barrels was in process of shipping down on 
the quay, the men who were rolling them suddenly stopped and 
listened; the line of onlookers paused in their comments, and 
turned round. From the town above came an outburst of cries, 
followed by the crash of the alarm from the church-tower. In 
two minutes the quay was empty. Out of every passage that 
gave on to the main street poured excited men and women, some 
hysterically laughing, some swearing, some silent and white as 
they ran. For across the bay westwards, on a point beyond. 
Winchelsea, in the still evening air rose up a stream of smoke 
shaped like a pine-tree, with a red smouldering root; and imme- 
diately afterwards in answer the Ypres tower behind the town 
was pouring out a thick drifting cloud that told to the watchers 
on Folkestone cliffs that the dreaded and longed-for foe was in 
sight of England. 

Then the solemn hours of waiting began to pass. Every day 
and night there were watchers, straining their eyes westwards 
in case the Armada should attempt to coast along England to 
force a landing anywhere, and southwards in case they should 
pass nearer the French coast on their way to join the Prince 
of Parma; but there was little to be seen over that wide ring of 
blue sea except single vessels, or now and again half-a-dozen in 
company, appearing and fading again on some unknown quest. 
The couriers that came in daily could not tell them much; only 
that there had been indecisive engagements; that the Spaniards 
had not yet attempted a landing anywhere; and that it was. 
supposed that they would not do so until a union with the force 
in Flanders had been effected. 

And so four days of the following week passed; then on 
Thursday, August the fourth, within an hour or two after sun- 
rise, the solemn booming of guns began far away to the south- 
west; but the hours passed; and before nightfall all was silent 
again. 

The suspense was terrible; all night long there were groups 


348 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


parading the streets, anxiously conjecturing, now despondently, 
now cheerfully. 

Then once again on the Friday morning a sudden clamour 
broke out in the town, and almost simultaneously a pinnace 
slipped out, spreading her wings and making for the open sea. 
A squadron of English ships had been sighted flying eastwards; 
and the pinnace was gone to get news. The ships were watched 
anxiously by thousands of eyes, and boats put out all along the 
coast to inquire; and within two or three hours the pinnace was 
back again in Rye harbour, with news that set bells ringing 
and men shouting. On Wednesday, the skipper reported, there 
had been an indecisive engagement during the dead calm that had 
prevailed in the Channel; a couple of Spanish store-vessels 
had been taken on the following morning, and a general action 
had followed, which again had been indecisive; but in which the 
English had hardly suffered at all, while it was supposed that 
great havoc had been wrought upon the enemy. 

But the best of the news was that the Rye contingent was 
to set sail at once, and unite with the English fleet westward of 
Calais by mid-day on Saturday. The squadron that had passed 
was under the command of the Admiral himself, who was going 
to Dover for provisions and ammunition, and would return to 
his fleet before evening. 

Before many hours were passed, Rye harbour was almost 
empty, and hundreds of eyes were watching the ships that 
carried their husbands and sons and lovers out into the pale 
summer haze that hung over the coast of France; while a few 
sharp-eyed old mariners on points of vantage muttered to one 
another that in the haze there was a patch of white specks to 
be seen which betokened the presence of some vast fleet. 

That night the sun set yellow and stormy, and by morning 
the cobble-stones of Rye were wet and dripping with storm- 
showers, and a swell was beginning to lap and sob against the 
harbour walls. 


CHAPTER II 
MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 


THE following days passed in terrible suspense for all left behind 
at Rye. Every morning all the points of vantage were crowded; 
the Ypres tower itself was never deserted day or night; and all 
the sharpest eyes in the town were bent continually out over 
that leaden rolling sea that faded into haze and storm-cloud in 
the direction of the French coast. But there was nothing to be 
seen on that waste of waters but the single boats that flew up 
channel or laboured down it against the squally west wind, far 
out at sea. Once or twice fishing-boats put in at Rye; but their 
reports were so contradictory and uncertain that they increased 
rather than allayed the suspense and misery. Now it was a 
French boat that reported the destruction of the Triumph; now 
an Englishman that swore to having seen Drake kill Medina-Sido- 
nia with his own hand on his poop; but whatever the news might 
be, the unrest and excitement ran higher and higher. St. Clare’s 
chapel in the old parish church of St. Nicholas was crowded 
every morning at five o’clock by an excited congregation of 
women, who came to beg God’s protection on their dear ones 
struggling out there somewhere towards the dawn with those 
cruel Southern monsters. Especially great was the crowd on the 
Tuesday morning following the departure of the ships; for all 
day on Monday from time to time came a far-off rolling noise 
from the direction of Calais; which many declared to be thunder, 
with an angry emphasis that betrayed their real opinion. 

When they came out of church that morning, and were stream- 
ing down to the quay as usual to see if any news had come in 
during the night, a seaman called to them from a window that 
a French vessel was just entering the harbour. 

When the women arrived at the water’s edge they found a 
good crowd already assembled on the quay, watching the ship 
beat in against the north-west wind, which had now set in; but 
she aroused no particular comment as she was a well-known boat 
plying between Boulogne and Rye; and by seven o’clock she was 
made fast to the quay. 


349 


350 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


There were the usual formalities, stricter than usual during 
war, to be gone through before the few passengers were allowed 
to land: but all was in order; the officers left the boat, and the 
passengers came up the plank, the crowd pressing forward as 
they came, and questioning them eagerly. No, there was no 
certain news, said an Englishman at last, who looked like a 
lawyer; it was said at Boulogne the night before that there had 
been an engagement further up beyond the Straits; they had 
all heard guns; and it was reported by the last cruiser who 
came in before the boat left that a Spanish galleasse had run 
aground and had been claimed by M. Gourdain, the governor of 
Calais; but probably, added the shrewd-eyed man, that was 
just a piece of their dirty French pride. The crowd smiled rue- 
fully; and a French officer of the boat who was standing by the 
gangway scowled savagely, as the lawyer passed on with a 
demure face. 

Then there was a pause in the little stream of passengers; and 
then, out of the tiny door that led below decks, walking swiftly, 
and carrying a long cloak over her arm, came Isabel Norris, in 
a grey travelling dress, followed by Anthony and a couple of 
servants. The crowd fell back for the lady, who passed straight 
up through them; but one or two of the men called out for news 
to Anthony. He shook his head cheerfully at them. 

“J know no more than that gentleman,” he said, nodding 
towards the lawyer; and then followed Isabel; and together they 
made their way up to the inn. 


Anthony was a good deal changed in the last six years; his 
beard and moustache were well grown; and he had a new look 
of gravity in his brown eyes; when he had smiled and shaken 
his head at the eager crowd just now, showing his white regular 
teeth, he looked as young as ever; but the serious look fell on 
his face again, as he followed Isabel up the steep little cobbled 
slope in his buff dress and plumed hat. 

There was not so much apparent change in Isabel; she was 
a shade graver too, her walk a little slower and more dignified, 
and her lips, a little thinner, had a line of strength in them that 
‘was new; and even now as she was treading English ground again 
for the first time for six years, the look of slight abstraction in 
her eyes that is often the sign of a strong inner life, was just a 
touch deeper than it used to be. 

They went up together with scarcely a word; and asked for 


MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 351 


a private room and dinner in two hours’ time; and a carriage 
and horses for the servants to be ready at noon. The landlord, 
who had met them at the door, shook his head. 

“The private room, sir, and the dinner—yes, sir—but the 
horses——-”’ and he spread his hands out deprecatingly. ‘There 
is not one in the stall,” he added. ) 

Anthony considered a moment. 

“Well, what do you propose? We are willing to stay a day 
or two, if you think that by then ? 

“Ah,” said the landlord, “to-morrow is another matter. I 
expect two of my carriages home to-night, sir, from London; 
but the horses will not be able to travel till noon to-morrow.” 

“That will do,” said Anthony; and he followed Isabel upstairs. 

It was very strange to them both to be back in England after 
sc long. They had settled down at Douai with the Maxwells; 
but, almost immediately on their arrival, Mistress Margaret was 
sent for by her Superior to the house of her Order at Brussels; 
and Lady Maxwell was left alone with Isabel in a house in the 
town; for Anthony was in the seminary. 

Then, in 86 Lady Maxwell had died, quite suddenly. Isabel 
herself had found her at her prie-dieu in the morning, still in her 
evening dress; she was leaning partly against the wall; her 
wrinkled old hands were clasped tightly together on a little ivory 
crucifix, on the top of the desk; and her snow-white head, with 
the lace drooping from it like a bridal veil, was bowed below 
them. Isabel, who had not dared to move her, had sent instantly 
for a little French doctor, who had thrown up his hands in a 
kind of devout ecstasy at that wonderful old figure, rigid in 
eternal prayer. The two tall tapers she had lighted eight hours 
before were still just alight beside her, and looked strange in 
the morning sunshine. 

“Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!”” he murmured 
over and over again; and then had fallen on his knees and 
kissed the drooping lace of her sleeve. 

“Priez pour moi, madame,” he whispered to the motionless 
figure. 

And so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone 
to her rest. The fact that her son James had been living in 
the College during her four years’ stay at Douai had been per- 
haps the greatest possible consolation to her for being obliged 
to be out of England; for she saw him almost daily; and it was 
he who sang her Requiem. Isabel had then gone to live with 





352 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


other friends in Douai, until Anthony had been ordained priest 
in the June of ’88, and was ready to take her to England; and 
now the two were bound for Stanfield, where Anthony was to 
act as chaplain for the present, as Mr. Buxton had predicted 
so long before. Old Mr. Blake had died in the spring of the 
year, still disapproving of his patron’s liberal notions, and Mr. 
Buxton had immediately sent a special messenger all the way to 
Douai to secure Anthony’s services; and had insisted moreover 
that Isabel should accompany her brother. They intended how- 
ever to call at the Dower House on the way, which had been 
left under the charge of old Mrs. Carroll; and renew the mem- 
ories of their own dear home. 

They talked little at dinner; and only of general matters, their 
journey, the Armada, their joy at getting home again; for they 
had been expressly warned by their friends abroad against any 
indiscreet talk even when they thought themselves alone, and 
especially in the seaports, where so constant a watch was kept 
for seminary priests. The presence of Isabel, however, was the 
greatest protection to Anthony; as it was almost unknown that 
a priest should travel with any but male companions. 

Then suddenly, as they were ending dinner, a great clamour 
broke out in the town below them; a gun was fired somewhere; 
and footsteps began to rush along the narrow street outside. 
Anthony ran to the window and called to know what was the 
matter; but no one paid any attention to him; and he presently 
sat down again in despair, and with one or two wistful looks. 

“YT will go immediately,” he said to Isabel, “and bring you 
word.” 

A moment after a servant burst into the room. 

“ft is a Spanish ship, sir,” he said, “ a prize—rounding Dun- 
geness.”’ 

In the afternoon, when the first fierce excitement was over, 
Anthony went down to the quay. He did not particularly wish 
to attract attention, and so he kept himself in the background 
somewhat; but he had a good view of her as she lay moored 
just off the quay, especially when one of the town guard who 
had charge of the ropes that kept the crowd back, seeing a gentle- 
man in the crowd, beckoned him through. 

“Your honour will wish to see the prize?” he said, in hopes 
of a trifle for himself; “make way there for the gentleman.” 

Anthony thought it better under these circumstances to accept 
the invitation, so he gave the man something, and slipped through. 


MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 353. 


On the quay was a pile of plunder from the ship: a dozen chests 
carved and steel-clamped stood together; half-a-dozen barrels of 
powder; the ship’s bell rested amid a heap of rich clothes and 
hangings; a silver crucifix and a couple of lamps with their 
chains lay tumbled on one side; and a parson was examining 
a finely carved mahogany table that stood near. 

He looked up at Anthony. 

“For the church, sir,” he said cheerfully. “I shall make appli- 
cation to her Grace.” 

Anthony smiled at him. 

“A holy revenge, sir,” he said. 

The ship herself had once been a merchantman brig; so much 
Anthony could tell, though he knew little of seamanship; but 
she had been armed heavily with deep bulwarks of timber, 
pierced for a dozen guns on each broadside. Now, however, she 
was in a terrible condition. The solid bulwarks were rent and 
shattered, as indeed was her whole hull; near the waterline were 
nailed sheets of lead, plainly in order to keep the water from 
entering the shot-holes; she had only one mast; and that was 
splintered in more than one place; a spar had been rigged up 
on to the stump of the bowsprit. The high poop such as distin- 
guished the Spanish vessels was in the same deplorable con- 
dition; as well as the figure-head, which represented a beardless 
man with a halo behind his head, and which bore the marks 
of fierce hacks as well as of shot. 

Anthony read the name,—the San Juan da Cabellas. 

From the high quay too he could see down on to the middle 
decks, and there was the most shocking sight of all, for the 
boards and the mast-stumps and the bulwarks and the ship’s fur- 
niture were all alike splashed with blood, some of the deeper pools 
not even yet dry. It was evident that the San Juan had not 
yielded easily. 

Presently Anthony saw an officer approaching, and not wishing 
to be led into conversation slipped away again through the crowd 
to take Isabel the news. 

The two remained quietly upstairs the rest of the afternoon, 
listening to the singing and the shouting in the streets, and 
watching from their window the groups that swung and danced 
to and fro in joy at Rye’s contribution to the defeat of the 
invaders. When the dusk fell the noise was louder than ever 
as the men began to drink more deep, and torches were con- 
tinually tossing up and down the steep cobbled streets; the din 


354 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


reached its climax about half-past nine, when the main body of 
the revellers passed up towards the inn, and, as Anthony saw 
from the window, finally entered through the archway below; 
and then all grew tolerably quiet. Presently Isabel said that 
she would go to bed, but just before she left the room, the 
servant again came in. 

“If you please, sir, Lieutenant Raxham, of the Seahorse, is 
telling the tale of the capture of the Spanish ship; and the land- 
lord bid me come and tell you.” 

Anthony glanced at Isabel, who nodded at him. 

“Ves; go,” she said, ‘“‘and come up and tell me the news after- 
wards, if it is not very late.” 

When Anthony came downstairs he found to his annoyance 
that the place of honour had been reserved for him in a tall 
chair next to the landlord’s at the head of the table. The 
landlord rose to meet his guest. 

“Sit here, sir,” he said. “I am glad you have come. And 
now, Mr. Raxham a 

Anthony looked about him with some dismay at this extreme 
publicity. The room was full from end to end. They were 
chiefly soldiers who sat at the table—heavy-looking rustics from 
Hawkhurst, Cranbrook and Appledore, in brigantines and steel 
caps, who had been sent in by the magistrates to the nearest 
seaport to assist in the defence of the coast—a few of them 
wore corselets with almain rivets and carried swords, while the 
pike-heads of the others rose up here and there above the crowd. 
The rest of the room was filled with the townsmen of Rye— 
those who had been retained for the defence of the coast, as 
well as others who for any physical reason could not serve by 
sea or land. There was an air of extraordinary excitement in 
the room. The faces of the most stolid were transfigured, for 
they were gathered to hear of the struggle their own dear Eng- 
land was making; the sickening pause of those months of waiting 
had ended at last; the huge southern monster had risen up 
over the edge of the sea, and the panting little country had 
flown at his throat and grappled him; and now they were hear- 
ing the tale of how deep her fangs had sunk. 

The crowd laughed and applauded and drew its breath sharply, 
as one man; and the silence now and then was startling as the 
young oificer told his story; although he had few gifts of rhetoric, 
except a certain vivid vocabulary. He himself was a lad of 
eighteen or so, with a pleasant reckless face, now flushed with 





MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 355 


drink and excitement, and sparkling eyes; he was seated in a 
chair upon the further end of the table, so that all could hear 
his story; and he had a cup of huff-cup in his left hand as he 
talked, leaving his right hand free to emphasise his points and 
slap his leg in a clumsy sort of oratory. His tale was full of 
little smiles, at which his audience nodded their heads now and 
then, approvingly. He had apparently already begun his story, 
for when Anthony had taken his seat and silence had been 
obtained, he went straight on without any further introduction. 

The landlord leaned over to Anthony. ‘The San Juan,” he 
whispered behind his hot hairy hand, and nodded at him with 
meaning eyes. 

‘“‘And every time they fired over us,” went on the lieutenant, 
“and we fired into them; and the only damage they did us was 
their muskets in the tops. They killed Tom Dane like that”— 
there was a swift hiss of breath from the room; but the officer 
went straight on—‘‘shot him through the back as he bent over 
his gun; and wounded old Harry and a score more; but all the 
while, lads, we were a-pounding at them with the broadsides as 
we came round, and raking them with the demi-cannon in the 
poop, until—well; go you and see the craft as she lies at the 
quay if you would know what we did. I tell you, as we came 
at her once towards the end, I saw that she was bleeding through 
her scuppers like a pig, from the middle deck. They were all 
packed up there together—sailors and soldiers and a priest or 
two; and scarce a ball could pass between the poop and the 
forecastle without touching flesh.” 

The lad stopped a moment and took a pull at his cup, and a 
murmur of talk broke out in the room. Anthony was surprised 
at his accent and manner of speaking, and heard afterwards that 
he was the son of the parson at one of the inland villages, and 
had had an education. In a moment he went on. 

“Well—it would be about noon, just before the Admiral came 
up from Calais, that the old Seahorse was lost. We came at the 
dons again as we had done before, only closer than ever; and 
just as the captain gave the word to put her about, a ball from 
one of their guns which they had trained down on us, cut old 
Dick Kemp in half at the helm, and broke the tiller to splinters.” 

“Old Dick?” said a man’s voice out of the reeking crowd, “Old 
Dick?” 

There was a murmur round him, bidding him hold his tongue; 
and the lad went on. 


356 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“Well, we drifted nearer and nearer. There was nought to 
do but to bang at them; and that we did, by God—and to board 
her if we touched. Well, I worked my saker, and saw little else 
—for the smoke was like a black sea-fog; and the noise fit to 
crack your ears. Mine sing yet with it; the captain was bawling 
from the poop, and there were a dozen pikemen ready below; 
and then on a sudden came the crash; and as I looked up and 
there was the Spaniards’ decks above us, and the poop like a 
tower, with a grinning don or two looking down; and there was 
I looking up the muzzle of a culverin. I skipped towards the 
poop, shouting to the men; and the dons fired their broadside 
as I went——God save us from that din! But I knew the old 
Seahorse was done this time—the old ship lurched and shook as 
the balls tore through her and broke her back; and there was 
such a yell as you’ll never hear this side of hell. Well—I was 
on the poop by now, and the men after me; for you see the poop 
of the Seakorse was as high as the middle deck of the Spaniard, 
and we must board from there or not at all. Well, lads, there 
was the captain before me. He had fought cool till then, as 
cool as a parson among his roses, with never an oath from his 
mouth—but now he was as scarlet as a poppy, and his eyes 
were like blue fire, and his mouth jabbered and foamed; he was 
so hot, you see, at the loss of his ship. He was dancing to and 
fro waiting while the poop swung round on the tide; and the old 
craft plunged deeper in every wave that lifted her, but he cared 
no more for that nor for the musket-balls from the tops, nor 
for the brown grinning devils who shook their pikes at him from 
the decks, than—than a mad dog cares for a shower of leaves; 
but he stamped there and cursed them and damned them as 
they laughed at him; and then in a moment the poop touched. 

“Well, lads—” and the lieutenant set his cup down on the 
table, clapped his hands on his knees, laughed shortly and 
nervously once or twice, and looked round. ‘Well, lads, I have 
never seen the like. The captain went for them like a wild cat; 
one step on the rail and the next among them; and was gone 
like a stone into water’—and the lad clapped his hand on his 
thigh. ‘I saw one face slit up from chin to eye; and another 
split across like an apple; and then we were after him. The 
men were mad, too—what was left of us; and we poured up 
on to the decks and left the old Seahorse to die. Well, we had 
our work before us—but it was no good. The dons could do — 
nothing; I was after the captain as he went through the pack 


MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 357 


and came out just behind him; there were half a dozen of them 
down now; and the noise and the foreign oaths went up like 
smoke; and the captain himself was bleeding down one side of 
his face and grunting as he cut and stabbed; and I had had a 
knife through the arm; but he went up on to the poop; and as 
I followed, the Spaniards broke and threw down their arms— 
they saw ’twas no use, you see. When we reached the poop- 
stairs an officer in a blue coat came forward jabbering some 
jargon; but the captain would have no parley with him, but flung 
his dag clean into the man’s face, and over he went backwards 
—with his damned high heels in the air.” 

There was a sudden murmur of laughter from the room; 
Anthony glanced off the lieutenant’s grinning ruddy face for a 
moment, and saw the rows of listening faces all wrinkled with 
mirth. 

“Well,” went on the lad, “up went the captain, and I after 
him. Then there came across the deck, very slowly and stately, 
the Spanish captain himself, in a fine laced coat and a plumed 
hat, and he was holding out his sword by the blade and bowed 
as we ran towards him, and began some damned foreign nonsense, 
with his Sezor—but the captain would have none o’ that, I tell 
you he was like Tom o’ Bedlam now—so as the Sefior grinned 
at him with his monkey face and bowed and wagged, the captain 
fetched him a slash across the cheek with his sword that cut 
up into his head; and that don went spinning across the poop 
like a morris-man and brought up against the rail, and then 
down he came,” and the lad dashed his hand on his thigh again 
—‘‘as dead as mutton.” 

Again came a louder gust of laughter from the room. Anthony 
half rose in his chair, and then sat down again. 

“Well,” said the lad, ‘‘and that was not ail. Down he raged 
again to the decks and I behind him—TI tell you, it was like a 
butcher’s shop—but it was quieter now—the fighting was over 
—and the Spaniards were all run below, except half-a-dozen in 
the tops; looking down like young rocks at an archer. There 
had been a popish priest too with his crucifix in one hand and 
his god-almighty in the other, over a dying man as we came up; 
but as we came down there he lay in his black gown with a hole 
through his heart and his crucifix gone. One of the lads had got 
it no doubt. Well, the captain brought up at the main mast. 
‘God’s blood,’ he bawled, ‘where are the brown devils got to?’ 
Some one told him, and pointed down the hatch. Well, then 


358 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


I turned sick with my wound and the smell of the place and 
all; and I knew nothing more till I found myself sitting on 
a dead don, with the captain holding me up and pouring a cordial 
down my throat.” 

Then talk and laughter broke out in the audience; but the land- 
lord held up his hand for silence. 

“And what of the others?” he shouted. 

“Dead meat too,” said the lad—‘‘the captain went down with 
a dozen or more and hunted them out and finished them. There 
was one, Dick told me afterwards,” and the lieutenant gave a 
cackle of mirth, “that they hunted twice round the ship before 
he jumped over yelling to some popish saint to help him; but it 
seems he was deaf, like the old Baal that parson tells of o’ Sun- 
days. The dirty swine to run like that! Well, he’s got his 
bellyful now of the salt water that he came so far to see. And 
then the captain with his own hands trained a robinet that was 
on the poop on to the tops; and down the birds came, one by 
one; for their powder up there was all shot off.” 

“And the Seahorse?” said the landlord again. 

There fell a dead silence: all in the room knew that the ship 
was lost, but it was terrible to hear it again. The lad’s face 
broke into lines of grief, and he spoke huskily. 

‘Gone down with the dead and wounded; and the rest of the 
fleet a mile away.” 

Then the lieutenant went on to describe how he himseif had 
been deputed to bring the San Juan into port with the wounded 
on board, while the captain and the rest of the crew by Drake’s 
orders attached themselves to various vessels that were short- 
handed, and how the English fleet had followed what was left 
of the Spaniards when the fight ended at sunset, up towards the 
North Sea. 

When he finished his story there was a tremendous outburst 
of cheering and hammering upon the table, and the feet and 
the pike-butts thundered on the floor, and a name was cried again 
and again as the cups were emptied. 

“God save her Grace and old England!” yelled a slim smooth- 
faced archer from Appledore. 

‘““God send the dons and all her foes to hell!” roared a burly 
pikeman with his cup in the air. Then the room shook again 
as the toasts were drunk with applauding feet and hands. 

Anthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping 
with his great red fists on the table. 


MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 359 


“What was the captain’s name?” he asked, when a slight lull 
came. 

“Maxwell,” said the crimson-faced man. “Hubert Maxwell— 
one of Drake’s own men.” 


When Anthony came upstairs he heard his name called through 
the door, and went in to Isabel’s room to find her sitting up in 
bed in the gloom of the summer night; the party below had broken 
up, and all was quiet except for the far-off shouts and hoots of 
cheerful laughter from the dispersing groups down among the 
narrow streets. 

“Well?” she said, as he came in and stood in the doorway. 

“Tt is just the story of the prize,” he said, ‘“‘and it seems that 
Hubert had the taking of it.” 

There was silence a moment. Anthony could see her face, a 
motionless pale outline, and her arms clasped round her knees 
as she sat up in bed. 

“Aubert?” she asked in an even voice. 

“Yes, Hubert.” 

There was silence a moment. 

“Well?” she said again. 

“He is safe,” said Anthony, “‘and fought gallantly. I will tell 
you more to-morrow.” 

“Ah!” said Isabel softly; and then lay down again. 

“Good-night, Anthony.” 

“Good-night.” 

But Anthony dared not tell her the details next day, after all. 


There was still a difficulty about the horses; they had not 
arrived until the Wednesday morning, and were greatly exhausted 
by a long and troublesome journey; so the travellers consented 
to postpone their journey for yet one more day. The weather, 
which had been thickening, grew heavier still in the afternoon, 
and great banks of clouds were rising out of the west. Anthony 
started out about four o’clock for a walk along the coast; and, 
making a long round in the direction of Lydd, did not finally 
return until about seven. As he came in at the north-east of 
the town he noticed how empty the streets were, and passed on 
down in the direction of the quay. As he turned down the 
steep street into the harbour groups began to pour up past him, 
laughing and exclaiming; and in a moment more came Isabel 
walking alone. He looked at her anxiously, for he saw something 


360 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


had happened. Her quiet face was lit up with some interior 
emotion, and her mouth was trembling. 

“The Armada is routed,” she said; “and I have seen 
Hubert.” 

The two turned back together and walked silently up to the 
inn. There she told him the story. She had been told that 
Captain Maxwell was come in the Elizabeth, for provisions for 
Lord Howard Seymour’s squadron, to which his new command 
was attached; and that he was even now in harbour. At that 
she had gone straight down alone. 

“Oh, Anthony!” she cried, “you know how it is with me. I 
could not help it. I am not ashamed of it. God Almighty 
knows all, and is not wrath with me. So I went down, and was 
in the crowd as he came down again with the mayor, Mr. Hamon; 
we all made way for them, and the men cheered themselves 
scarlet; but he came down cool and quiet; you know his way— 
with his eyes half shut; and—and—he was so brown; and he 
looks sad—and he had a great plaister on the left temple. And 
then he saw me.’ 

Isabel sprang up, and came up to Anthony and took his hands. 
“Oh! Anthony; I was very happy then; because he took off his 
cap and bowed; and his face was all lighted: and he took my 
hand and kissed it—and then made Mr. Hamon known to me. 
The crowd laughed and said things—but I did not care; and 
he soon silenced them, he looked round so fiercely; and then I 
went on board with him—he would have it so—and he showed 
us everything—and we sat a little in the cabin; and he told 
me of his wife and child. She is the daughter of a Plymouth 
minister; he knew her when he was with Drake; and he told 
me all about her, so you see——” Isabel broke off; and sat 
down in the high window seat. “And then he asked me about 
you; and I said you were here; and that we were going to stay 
a little while with Mr. Buxton of Stanfield—you see I knew 
we could trust him; and Mr. Hamon was in the passage just 
then looking at the guns; and then a sailor came in to say that 
all was ready; and so we came away. But it was so good to 
see him again; and to know that he was so happy.” 

Anthony looked at his sister in astonishment; her quiet man- 
ner was gone, and she was talking again almost like an excited 
child; and so happily. It was very strange, he thought. He - 
sat down beside her. 

“Oh, Anthony!” she said, “do you understand? I love him 


MEN OF WAR AND PEACE 361 


dearly still; and his wife and child too. God bless them all and 
keep them!” 

The mystery was still deep to him; and he feared to say what 
he should not; so he kissed Isabel silently; and the two sat there 
together and looked out over the crowding red roofs to the 
glowing western sky across the bay below them. 


CHAPTER III 
HOME-COMING 


It was a stormy summer evening as the brother and sister rode 
up between the last long hills that led to Great Keynes. A 
south-west wind had been rising all day, that same wind that 
was now driving the ruined Armada up into the fierce North 
Sea, with the fiercer men behind to bar the return. But here, 
twenty miles inland, with the high south-downs to break the 
gale, the riders were in comparative quiet, though the great trees 
overhead tossed their heavy rustling heads as the gusts struck 
them now and again. 

The party had turned off, as the dusk was falling, from the 
main-road into bridle-paths that they knew well, and were now 
approaching the village through the water meadows on the south- 
east side along a ride that would bring them, round the village, 
direct to the Dower House. In the gloom Anthony could make 
out the tall reeds, and the loosestrife and willowherb against 
them, that marked the course of the stream where he had caught 
trout, as a boy; and against the western sky, as he turned in 
his saddle, rose up the high windy hills where he had hawked 
with Hubert so many years before. It was a strange thought 
to him as he rode along that his very presence here in his own 
country was an act of high treason by the law lately passed, and 
that every day he lived here must be a day of danger. 

For Isabel, too, it was strange to be riding up again towards 
the battlefield of her desires—that battlefield where she had lived 
for years in such childish faith and peace without a suspicion 
of the forces that were lurking beneath her own quiet nature. 
But to both of them the sense of home-coming was stronger than 
all else—that strange passion for a particular set of inanimate 
things—or, at the most, for an association of ideas—that has 
no parallel in human emotions; and as they rode up the darkening 
valley and the lights of the high windows of the Hall began to 
show over the trees on their right, Anthony forgot his treason 
and Isabel her conflicts, and both felt a lump rise in the throat, 

362 


HOME-COMING 363 


and their hearts begin to beat quicker with a strange pleasurable 
pulse, and to Isabel’s eyes at least there rose up great tears of 
happiness and content; neither dared speak, but both looked 
eagerly about at the pool where the Mayflies used to dance, at 
the knoll where the pigeons nested, at the little low bridge beneath 
which their inch-long boats used to slide sideways into darkness, 
and the broad marshy flats where the gorgeous irises grew. 

“How the trees have grown!” said Anthony at last, with an 
effort; “I cannot see the lights from the house.” 

“Mrs. Carroll will have made ready the first-floor rooms then, 
on the south.” 

“T am sorry they are not our own,” said Anthony. 

“Ah, look! there is the dovecote,” cried Isabel. 

They were passing up now behind the farm buildings; and 
directly afterwards came round in front of the little walled 
garden to the west of the house. 

There was a sudden exclamation from Anthony; and Isabel 
stared in silent dismay. The old house rose up before them with 
its rows of square windows against the night sky, dark. There 
was not a glimmer anywhere; even Mrs. Carroll’s own room on 
the south was dark. They reined their horses in and stood a 
moment. 

“Oh, Anthony, Anthony!” cried Isabel suddenly, ‘‘what is it? 
Is there no one there?” 

Anthony shook his head; and then put his tired beast to a 
shambling trot with Isabel silent again with weariness and disap- 
pointment behind him. They passed along outside the low wall, 
turned the corner of the house and drew up at the odd little 
doorway in the angle at the back of the house. The servants 
had drawn up behind them, and now pressed up to hold their 
horses; and the brother and sister slipped off and went towards 
the door. Anthony passed under the little open porch and put 
his hand out to the door; it was quite dark underneath the porch, 
and he felt further and further, and yet there was no door; his 
foot struck the step. He felt his way to the doorposts and groped 
for the door; but still there was none; he could feel the panelling 
of the lobby inside the doorway, and that was all. He drew 
back, as one would draw back from a dead face on which one 
had laid a hand in the dark. 

“Oh, Anthony!” said Isabel again, “what is it?” She was 
still outside. 

“Have you a light?” said Anthony hoarsely to the servants. 


364 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


The man nearest him bent and fumbled in the saddle-bags, 
and after what seemed an interminable while kindled a little bent 
taper and handed it to him. As he went towards the porch 
shading it with his hand, Isabel sprang past him and went be- 
fore; and then, as the light fell through the doorway, stopped 
in dead and bewildered silence. 

The door was lying on the floor within, shattered and splintered. 

Anthony stepped beside her, and she turned and clung to his 
arm, and a sob or two made itself heard. Then they looked 
about them. The banisters above them were smashed, and like 
a cataract, down the stairs lay a confused heap of crockery, 
torn embroidery and clothes, books, and broken furniture. 

Anthony’s hand shook so much that the shadows of the broken 
banisters waved on the wall above like thin exulting dancers. 

Suddenly Anthony started. 

“Mrs. Carroll,” he exclaimed, and he darted upstairs past the 
ruins into her two rooms halfway up the Hight, and in a minute 
or two was back with Isabel. 

“She has escaped,” he said in a low voice; and then the two 
stood looking about them silently again. The door leading to 
the cellars on the left was broken too; and fragments of casks 
and bottles lay about the steps; the white wall was splashed with 
drink, and there was a smell of spirits in the air. Evidently the 
stormers had thought themselves worthy of their hire. 

“Come,” he said again; and leaving the entrance lobby, the 
two passed to the hall-door and pushed that open and looked. 
There was the same furious confusion there; the tapestry was 
lying tumbled and rent on the floor—the high oak mantelpiece 
was shattered, and doleful cracks and splinters in the panelling 
all round showed how mad the attack had been; one of the 
pillars of the further archway was broken clean off, and the 
brickwork showed behind; the pictures had been smashed and 
added to the heap of wrecked furniture and broken glass in the 
middle. 

“Come,” he said once more; and the two passed silently through 
the broken archway, and going up the other flight of stairs, grad- 
ually made the round of the house. Everywhere it was the same, 
except in the servants’ attics, where, apparently, the mob had 
not thought it worth while to go. 

Isabel’s own room was the most pitiable of all; the windows 
had only the leaden frames left, and those bent and battered; 
the delicate panelling was scarred and split by the shower of 


HOME-COMING 365 


stones that had poured in through the window and that now lay 
in all parts of the room. A painting of her mother that had 
hung over her bed was now lying face downwards on the floor. 
Isabel turned it over silently; a stone had gone through the face; 
and it had been apparently slit too by some sharp instrument. 
Even the slender oak bed was smashed in the centre, as if half 
a dozen men had jumped upon it at once; and the little prie-dieu 
near the window had been deliberately hacked in half. Isabel 
looked at it all with wide startled eyes and parted lips; and then 
suddenly sank down on the wrecked bed where she had hoped to 
sleep that night, and began to sob like a child. 

“Ah! I did think—I did think ” she began. 

Anthony stooped and tried to lift her. 

“Come, my darling,” he said, ‘is not this a high honour? 
Out relinquit domos!” 

“Oh! why have they done it?” sobbed Isabel. ‘What harm 
have we done them?” and she began to wail. She was thoroughly 
over-tired and over-wrought; and Anthony could not find it in 
his heart to blame her; but he spoke again bravely. 

“We are Catholics,” he said; “that is why they have done it. 
Do not throw away this grace that our Lord has given us; em- 
brace it and make it yours.” 

It was the priest that was speaking now; and Isabel turned her 
face and looked at him; and then got up and hid her face on 
his shoulder. 

“Oh, Anthony, help me!” she said; and so stood there, 
quiet. 





He came down presently to the servants, while Isabel went 
upstairs to prepare the rooms in the attics; for it was impossible 
for them to ride further that night; so they settled to sleep there, 
and stable the horses; and to ride on early the next day, and 
be out of the village before the folks were about. Anthony gave 
directions to the servants, who were Catholics too, and explained 
in a word or two what had happened; and bade them come up 
to the house as soon as they had fed and watered the beasts; 
meanwhile he took the saddle-bags indoors and spread out their 
remaining provisions in one of the downstairs rooms; and soon 
Isabel joined him. 

“YT have made up five beds,” she said, and her voice and lips 
were steady, and her eyes grave and serene again. 

The five supped together in the wrecked kitchen, a fine room 


366 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


on the east of the house, supported by a great oak pillar to 
which the horses of guests were sometimes attached when the 
stable was full. 

Isabel managed to make a fire and to boil some soup; but they 
hung thick curtains across the shattered windows, and quenched 
the fire as soon as the soup was made, for fear that either the 
light or the smoke from the chimney should arouse attention. 

When supper was over, and the two men-servants and Isabel’s 
French maid were washing up in the scullery, Isabel suddenly 
turned to Anthony as they sat together near the fireplace. 

“T had forgotten,” she said, “what we arranged as we rode up. 
I must go and tell her still.” 

Anthony looked at her steadily a moment. 

“God keep you,” he said. 

She kissed him and took her riding-cloak, drew the hood over 
her head, and went out into the dark. 


It was with the keenest relief that, half an hour later, Anthony 
heard her footstep again in the red-tiled hall outside. The 
servants were gone upstairs by now, and the house was quiet. 
She came in, and sat by him again and took his hand. 

“Thank God I went,” she said. ‘I have left her so happy.” 

“Tell me all,” said Anthony. 

“T went through the garden,” said Isabel, “but came round 
to the front of the house so that they might not think I came 
from here. When the servant came to the door—he was a stran- 
ger, and a Protestant no doubt—I said at once that I brought 
news of Mr. Maxwell from Rye; and he took me straight in and 
asked me to come in while he fetched her woman. Then her 
woman came out and took me upstairs, up into Lady Max- 
well’s old room; and there she was lying in bed under the great 
canopy. Oh, Anthony, she is so pretty! her golden hair was 
lying out all over the pillow, and her face is so sweet. She cried 
out when I came in, and lifted herself on her elbow; so I just 
said at once, ‘He is safe and well’; and then she went off into 
sobs and laughter; so that I had to go and soothe her—her woman 
was so foolish and helpless; and very soon she was quiet: and 
then she called me her darling, and she kissed me again and again; 
and told the woman to go and leave us together; and then she 
lifted the sheet; and showed me the face of a little child. Oh 
Anthony; Hubert’s child and hers, the second, born on Tuesday 
—only think of that. ‘Mercy, I was going to call her,’ she 


HOME-COMING 367 


said, ‘if I had not heard by to-morrow, but now I shall call her 
Victory.’ ” 

Anthony looked quickly at his sister, with a faint smile in 
his eyes. 

“And what did you say?” he asked. 

Isabel smiled outright; but her eyes were bright with tears too. 

““ “Vou have guessed,’ she said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘call her Mercy 
all the same,’”’ and she kissed me again, and cried, and said 
that she would. And then I told her all about Hubert; and about 
his little wound; and how well he looked; and how all the fight- 
ing was most likely over; and what his cabin looked like. And 
then she suddenly guessed who I was, and asked me; and I could 
not deny it, you know; but she promised not to tell. Then she 
told me all about the house here; and how she was afraid Hubert 
had said something impatient about people who go to foreign 
parts and leave their country to be attacked, ‘But you know he 
did not really mean it,’ she said; and of course he did not. Well, 
the people had remembered that, and it spread and spread; 
and when the news of the Armada came last week, a mob 
came over from East Grinsted, and they sat drinking and drink- 
ing in the village; and of course Grace could not go out to 
them; and all the old people are gone, and the Catholics on 
the estate—and so at last they all came out roaring and shouting 
down the drive, and Mrs. Carroll was warned and slipped out to 
the Hall; and she is now gone to Stanfield to wait for us—and 
then the crowd broke into the house—but, oh Anthony, Grace 
was so sorry, and cried sore to think of us here; and asked us 
to come and stay there; but of course I told her we could not: 
and then I said a prayer for her; and we kissed one another again; 
and then I came away.” 

Anthony looked at his sister, and there was honour and pride 
of her in his eyes. 

The ride to Stanfield next day was a long affair, at a foot’s- 
pace all the way: the horses were thoroughly tired with their 
journey, and they were obliged to start soon after three o’clock 
in the morning after a very insufficient rest; they did not reach 
Groombridge till nearly ten o’clock, when they dined, and then 
rode on towards Tonbridge about noon. There were heavy 
hearts to be carried as well. The attempt to welcome the misery 
of their home-coming was a bitter effort; all the more bitter for 
that it was an entirely unexpected call upon them. During those 
six years abroad probably not a day had passed without visions 


368 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


of Great Keynes, and the pleasant and familiar rooms and. garden 
of their own house, and mental rehearsals of their return. The 
shock of the night before too had been emphasised by the horror 
of the cold morning light creeping through the empty windows on 
to the cruel heaps within. The garden too, seen in the dim 
morning, with its trampled lawns and wrecked flower-beds heaped 
with withered sunflowers, bell-blossoms and all the rich August 
growth, with the earthen flower-bowls smashed, the stone balls 
on the gate overturned, and the laurels at the corner uprooted 
—all this was a horrible pain to Isabel, to whom the garden 
was very near as dear and familiar as her own room. So it was 
a silent and sorrowful ride; and Anthony’s heart rose in relief 
as at last up the grey village-street he saw the crowded roofs 
of Stanfield Place rise over the churchyard wall. 

Their welcome from Mr. Buxton went far to compensate for all. 

“My dear boy,” he said, ‘‘or, my dear father, as I should call 
you in private, you do not know what happiness is mine to-day. 
It is a great thing to have a priest again; but, if you will allow 
me to say so, it is a greater to have my friend—and what a 
sister you have upstairs!” 

They were in Mr. Buxton’s own little room on the ground-floor, 
and Isabel had gone to rest until supper. 

Anthony told him of the grim surprise that had awaited them 
at Great Keynes. ‘‘So you must forgive my sister if she is a 
little sad.” 

“Ves, yes,” said Mr. Buxton, ‘‘I had heard from Mrs. Carroll 
last night when she arrived here. But there was no time to warn 
you. I had expected you to-day, though Mrs. Carroll did not.” 

(Anthony had sent a man straight from Rye to Stanfield.) 

“But Mistress Isabel, as I shall venture to call her, must do 
what she can with this house and garden. I need not say how 
' wholly it is hers. And I shall call you Anthony,” he added— 
“in public, at least. And, for strangers, you are just here as my 
guest; and you shall be called Capell—a sound name; and you 
shall be Catholics too; though you are no priest, of course, in 
public—and you have returned from the Continent. I hold it is 
no use to lie when you can be found out. I do not know what 
your conscience is, Father Anthony; but, for myself, I count us 
Catholics to be in statu belli now; and therefore I shall lie 
frankly and fully when there is need; and you may do as you 
please. Old Mr. Blake used to bid me prevaricate instead; but 
that always seemed to me two lies instead of one—one to the 


HOME-COMING 369 


questioning party and the other to myself; and so I always said 
to him, but he would not have it so. I wondered he did not tell 
me that two negatives made an affirmative; but he was not clever 
enough, the good father. So my own custom is to tell one plain 
lie when needed, and shame the devil.” 

It was pleasant to Anthony to hear his friend talk again, and 
he said so. His host’s face softened into a great tenderness. 

“Dear lad, I know what you mean. Please God you may find 
this a happy home.” 

A couple of hours later, when Anthony and Isabel came down 
together from their rooms in the old wing, they found Mr. Buxton 
in his black satin and lace in the beautiful withdrawing-room on 
the ground-floor. It was already past the supper-hour, but their 
host showed no signs of going into the hall. At last he apologised. . 

“T ask your pardon, Mistress Isabel; but I have a guest come 
to stay with me, who only arrived an hour ago; and she is a 
great lady and must have her time. Ah! here she is.” 

The door was flung open and a radiant vision appeared. The 
door was a little way off, and there were no candles near it; but 
there swelled and rustled into the room a figure all in blue and 
gold, with a white delicate ruff; and diamond buckles shone 
beneath the rich brocaded petticoat. Above rose a white bosom 
and throat scintillating with diamonds, and a flushed face with 
scarlet lips, all crowned by piles of black hair, with black dancing 
eyes beneath. Still a little in the shadow this splendid figure 
swept down with a great curtsey, which Isabel met by another, 
while the two gentlemen bowed low; and then, as the stranger 
swayed up again into the full light of the sconces, Anthony 
recognised Mary Corbet. 

He stood irresolute with happy hesitation; and she came up 
smiling brilliantly; and before he could stay her dropped down 
on one knee and took his hand and kissed it; just as the man 
left the room. 

“God bless you, Father Anthony!” she said; and as he looked 
at her, as she glanced up, he could not tell whether her eyes shone 
with tears or laughter. 

“This is very charming-and proper, Mistress Corbet, and like 
a true daughter of the Church,” put in Mr. Buxton, “but I shall 
be obliged to you if you will not in future kiss priests’ hands nor 
call them Father in the presence of the servants—at least not in 
my house.” 

“Ah!” she said, “you were always prudent. Have you seen 


370 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


his secret doors?” she went on to Anthony. ‘The entire Catholic 
Church might play hare and hounds with the Holy Father as 
huntsman and the Cardinals as the whips, through Mr. Buxton’s 
secret labyrinths.” 

“Wait until you are hare, and it is other than Holy Church 
that is a-hunting,” said Mr. Buxton, “and you will thank God 
for my labyrinths, as you call them.” 

Then she greeted Isabel with great warmth. 

“Why, my dear,” she said, “you are not the little Puritan 
maiden any longer. We must have a long talk to-night; and you 
shall tell me everything.” 

“Mistress Mary is not so greatly changed,” said Isabel, smiling. 
‘“‘She always would be told everything.” 

It was strange to Anthony to meet Mary again after so long, 
and to find her so little changed, as Isabel had said truly. He 
himself had passed through so much since they had last met at 
Greenwich over six years ago—his conversion, his foreign sojourn, 
and, above all, the bewildering and intoxicating sweetness of his 
ordination and priestly life. And yet he felt as close to Mary 
as ever, knit in a bond of wonderful good fellowship and brother- 
hood such as he had never felt to any other in just that kind and 
degree. He watched her, warm and content, as she talked across 
the polished oak and beneath the gleam of the candles; and 
listened, charmed by her air and her talk. 

“There is not so much news of her Grace,” she said, “‘save that 
she is turning soldier in her old age. She rode out to Tilbury, 
you know, the other day, in steel cuirass and scarlet; out to see 
her dear Robin and the army; and her royal face was all smiles 
and becks, and lord! how the soldiers cheered. But if you had 
seen her as I did, in her room when she first buckled on her 
armour, and the joints did not fit—yes, and heard her! there 
were no smiles to spare then. She lodged at Mr. Rich’s, you 
know, two nights; but he would be Mr. Poor, I should suppose, - 
by the time her Grace left him; for he will not see the worth of 
a shoelace again of all that he expended on her.” 

“You see,” remarked Mr. Buxton to Isabel, “how fortunate 
we are in having such a friend of her Grace’s with us. We hear 
all the cream of the news, even though it be a trifle sour some- 
times.” 

‘‘A lover of her Grace,” said Mary, “loves the truth about her, 
however bitter. But then I have no secret passages where I may 
hide from my sovereign!” 


HOME-COMING Bye 


“‘The cream can scarce be but sour,” said Anthony, “near her 
Grace: there is so much thunder in the air.” 

“Yes, but the sun came out when you were there, Anthony,” 
put in Isabel, smiling. 

“But even the light of her glorious countenance is trying,” 
said Mary. “She is overpowering in thunder and sunshine alike.” 

“We have had enough of that metaphor,” observed Mr. Buxton. 


Then Anthony had to talk, and tell all the foreign news of 
Douai and Rome and Cardinal Allen; and of Father Persons’ 
scheme for a college at Valladolid. 

“Father Robert is a superb beggar—as he is superb in all 
things,” said Mr. Buxton. “I dare not think how much he got 
from me for his college; and then I do not even approve of his 
college. His principles are too logical for me. I have ever had 
a weakness for the zon sequitur.” 

This led on to the Armada; Anthony told his experience of it; 
how he had seen at least the sails of Lord Howard’s squadron far 
away against the dawn; and this led on again to a sharp discussion 
when the servants had left the room. 

“TI do not know,” said Mary at last; “it is difficult—is not the 
choice between God and Elizabeth? If I were a man, why should 
I not take up arms to defend my religion? Since I am a woman, 
why should I not pray for Phillip’s success? It is a bitter hard 
choice, I know; but why need I prefer my country to my faith? 
Tell me that, Father Anthony.” 

“T can only tell you my private opinion,” said Anthony, “and 
that is, that both duties may be done. As Mr. Buxton here used 
to tell me, the duty to Cesar is as real as the duty to God. A 
man is bound tc both; for each has its proper bounds. When 
either oversteps them it must be resisted. When Elizabeth bids 
me deny my faith, I tell her I would sooner die. When a priest 
bids me deny my country, I tell him I would sooner be damned.” 

Mary clapped her hands. 

“T like to hear a man talk like that,” she cried. ‘‘But what of 
the Holy Father and his excommunication of her Grace?”’ 

Anthony looked up at her sharply, and then smiled; Isabel 
watched him with a troubled face. 

“Aquinas holds,” he said, “that an excommunication of sov- 
ereign and people in a lump is invalid. And until the Holy 
Father tells me himself that Aquinas is wrong, I shall continue to 
think he is right.” 


372 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


‘“‘God-a-mercy!”’ burst in Mr. Buxton, “what a to-do! Leave 
it alone until the choice must be made; and meanwhile say your 
prayers for Pope and Queen too, and hear mass and tell your 
beads and hold your tongue: that is what I say to myself. Mis- 
tress Mary, I will not have my chaplain heckled; here is his lady 
sister all a-tremble between heresy and treason.” 

They sat long over the supper-table, talking over the last six 
years and the times generally. More than once Mary showed a 
strange bitterness against the Queen. At last Mr. Buxton showed 
his astonishment plainly. 

“TJ do not understand you,” he said. “I know that at heart 
you are loyal; and yet one might say you meditated her murder.” 

Mary’s face grew white with passion and her eyes blazed. 

‘“‘Ah!” she hissed, “you do not understand, you say? Then 
where is your heart? But then you did not see Mary Stuart die.” 

Anthony looked at her, amazed. 

‘“‘And you did, Mistress Mary?” he asked. 

Mary bowed, with her lips set tight to check their trembling. 

“T will tell you,” she said, “if our host permits”; and she 
glanced at him. 

‘Then come this way,” he said, and they rose from table. 

They went back again to the withdrawing-room; a little cedar- 
fire had been kindled under the wide chimney; and the room was 
full of dancing shadows. The great plaster-pendants, the roses, 
the crowns, and the portcullises on the ceiling seemed to waver 
in the firelight, for Mr. Buxton at a sign from Mary blew out 
the four tapers that were burning in the sconces. They all sat 
down in the chairs that were set round the fire, Mary in a tall 
porter’s chair with flaps that threw a shadow on her face when 
she leaned back; and she took a fan in her hand to keep the fire, 
or her friends’ eyes, from her face should she need it. 

She first told them very briefly of the last months of Mary’s 
life, of the web that was spun round her by Walsingham’s 
tactics, and her own friends’ efforts, until it was difficult for her 
to stir hand or foot without treason, real or pretended, being set 
in motion somewhere. Then she described how at Christmas ’86 
Elizabeth had sent her—Mary Corbet—as a Catholic, up to the 
Queen of the Scots at Fotheringay, on a private mission to attempt 
to win the prisoner’s confidence, and to persuade her to confess 
to having been privy to Babington’s conspiracy; and how the 
Scottish Queen had utterly denied it, even in the most intimate 
conversations. Sentence had been already passed, but the war- 


HOME-COMING 373 


rant had not been signed; and it never would have been signed, 
said Mistress Corbet, if Mary had owned to the crime of which 
she was accused. 

‘““Ah! how they insulted her!” said Mary Corbet indignantly. 
““She showed me one day the room where her throne had stood. 
Now the cloth of state had been torn down by Sir Amyas Paulet’s 
men, and he himself dared to sit with his hat on his head in the 
sovereign’s presence! The insolence of the hound! But the 
Queen showed me how she had hung a crucifix where her royal 
arms used to hang. ‘J’appelle,’ she said to me, ‘de la reine au 
roi des roils.’ ” 

Mistress Corbet went on to tell of the arrival of Walsingham’s 
brother-in-law, Mr. Beale, with the death-warrant on that Feb- 
ruary Sunday evening. 

“T saw his foxy face look sideways up at the windows as he 
got off his horse in the courtyard; and I knew that our foes had 
triumphed. Then the other bloodhounds began to arrive; my 
lord of Kent on the Monday and Shrewsbury on the Tuesday. 
Then they came in to us after dinner; and they told her Grace 
it was to be for next day. I was behind her chair and saw her 
hand on the boss of the arm, and it did not stir nor clench; she 
said it could not be. She could not believe it of Elizabeth. 

“‘When she did at last believe it, there was no wild weeping or 
crying for mercy; but she set her affairs in order, queenly, and 
yet sedately too. She first thought of her soul, and desired that 
M. de Preau might come to her and hear her confession; but they 
would not permit it. They offered her Dr. Fletcher instead, ‘a 
godly man,’ as my lord of Kent called him. ‘Je ne m’en 
doute pas,’ she said, smiling. But it was hard not to have 
a priest. 

“Then she set her earthly affairs in order when she had ex- 
amined her soul and made confession to God without the Dean’s 
assistance. We all supped together when it was growing late; 
and I thought, Father Anthony—indeed I did—of another Supper 
long ago. Then M. Gorion was sent for to arrange some mes- 
sages and gifts; and until two of the clock in the morning we 
watched with her or served her as she wrote and gave orders. 
The court outside was full of comings and goings. As I passed 
down the passage I saw the torches of the visitors that were come 
to see the end; and once I heard a hammering from the great 
hall. Then she went to her bed; and I think few lay as quiet as 
she in the castle that night. I was with her ladies when they 


374 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


waked her before dawn; and it was hard to see that sweet face 
on the pillow open its eyes again to what was before her. 

“Then when she was dressed I went in again, and we all went 
to the oratory, where she received our Saviour from the golden 
pyx which the Holy Father had sent her; for, you see, they would 
allow no priest to come near her... . 

“Presently the gentlemen knocked. When we tried to follow 
we were prevented; they wished her to die alone among her 
enemies; but at last two of the ladies were allowed to go with her. 

“T ran out another way, and sent a message to my Lord 
Shrewsbury, who knew me at court. As I waited in the court- 
yard, the musicians there were playing ‘The Witches’ Dirge,’ as 
is done at the burnings—and all to mock at my queen! At last 
a halberdier was sent to bring me in.” 

Mary Corbet was silent a moment or two and leaned back in 
her chair; and the others dared not speak. The strange emotion 
of her voice and the stillness of that sparkling figure in the 
porter’s chair affected them profoundly. Her face was now com- 
pletely shaded by a fan. 

“Tt was in the hall, where a great fire was burning on the 
hearth. The stage stood at the upper end; all was black. The 
crowd of gentlemen filled the hall and all were still and reverent 
except—except a devil who laughed as my queen came in, all 
in black. She was smiling and brave, and went up the steps and 
sat on her black throne and looked about her. The—the things 
were just in front of her. 

“Then the warrant was read by Beale, and I saw the lords 
glance at her as it ended; but there was nought but joyous hope 
in her face. She looked now and again gently on the ivory 
crucifix in her hand, as she listened; and her lips moved to—to— 
Him who was delivered te death for her.” 

Mary Corbet gave one quick sob, and was silent again for an 
instant. Then she went on in a yet lower voice. 

“Dr. Fletcher tried to address her, but he stammered and 
paused three or four times; and the queen smiled on him and 
bade him not trouble himself, for that she lived and died a 
Catholic. But they would not let her be; so she looked on her 
crucifix and was silent; and even then my lord of Kent badgered 
her and told her Christ crucified in her hand would not save her, 
except He was engraved on her heart. 

“Then she knelt at her chair and tried to pray softly to herself; 
but Fletcher would not have that, and prayed himself, aloud, and 


HOME-COMING 375 


all the gentlemen in the hall began to pray aloud with him. But 
Mary prayed on in Latin and English aloud, and prevailed, for 
all were silent at the end but she. 

“And at last she kissed the crucifix and cried in a sweet piercing 
voice, ‘As thine arms, O Jesus, were spread upon the Cross, so 
receive me into Thy mercy and forgive me my sins!’ ” 

Again Mistress Corbet was silent; and Anthony drew a long 
sobbing breath of pure pity, and Isabel was crying quietly to 
herself. 

“When the headsmen offered to assist her,’ went on the low 
voice, “the queen smiled at the gentlemen and said that she had 
never had such grooms before; and then they let the ladies come 
up. When they began to help her with her dress I covered my 
face—I could not help it. There was such a stillness now that I 
could hear her beads chink at her girdle. When I looked again, 
she was ready, with her sweet neck uncovered: all round her 
was black but the headsman, who wore a white apron over his 
velvet, and she, in her beauty, and oh! her face was so fair and 
delicate and her eyes so tender and joyous. And as her ladies 
looked at her, they sobbed piteously. ‘Ne criez vous,’ said she. 

“Then she knelt down, and Mistress Mowbray bound her eyes. 
She smiled again under the handkerchief. ‘Adieu,’ she said, and 
then, ‘Au revoir.’ | 

“Then she said once more a Latin psalm, and then laid her 
head down, as on a pillow. 

““In manus tuas, Domine,’ she said.” 


Mary Corbet stopped, and leaned forward a little, putting her 
hand into her bosom; Anthony looked at her as she drew up a 
thin silk cord with a ruby ring attached to it. 

“This was hers,” she said simply, and held it out. Each of 
the Catholics took it and kissed it reverently, and Mary re- 
placed it. | 

‘When they lifted her,” she added, ‘“‘a little dog sprang out 
from her clothes and yelped. And at that the man near me, who 
had laughed as she came in, wept.” 


Then the four sat silent in the firelight. 


CHAPTER IV 
STANFIELD PLACE 


Lire at Stanfield Place was wonderfully sweet to Anthony and 
Isabel after their exile abroad, for both of them had an intense 
love of England and of English ways. The very sight of fair- 
faced children, and the noise of their shrill familiar voices from 
the village street, the depths of the August woods round them, 
the English manners of living—all this was alive with a full 
deliberate joy to these two. Besides, there was the unfailing 
tenderness and gaiety of Mr. Buxton; and at first there was the 
pleasant company of Mary Corbet as well. 

There was little or no anxiety resting on any of them. “God 
was served,” as the celebration of mass was called, each morning 
in the little room where Anthony had made the exercises, and the 
three others were always present. It was seldom that the room 
was not filled to overflowing on Sundays and holy-days with the 
household and the neighbouring Catholics. 

Everything was, of course, perfection in the little chapel when 
it was furnished; as was all that Mr. Buxton possessed. There 
was a wonderful golden crucifix by an unknown artist, that he 
had picked up in his travels, that stood upon the altar, with the 
bird-types of the Saviour at each of the four ends; a pelican at 
the top, an eagle on the right supporting its young which were 
raising their wings for a flight, on the left a phoenix amid flames, 
and at the foot a hen gathering her chickens under her wings— 
all the birds had tiny emerald eyes; the figure on the cross was 
beautifully wrought, and had rubies in hands and feet and side. 
There were also two silver altar-candlesticks designed by Marrina 
for the Piccolomini chapel in the church of St. Francis in Siena; 
and two more, plainer, for the Elevation. The vestments were 
exquisite; those for high festivals were cloth of gold; and the 
other white ones were beautifully worked with seed pearls, and 
jewelled crosses on the stole and maniple. The other colours, too, 
were well represented, and were the work of a famous convent in 


376 


STANFIELD PLACE 377 


the south of France. All the other articles, too, were of silver: the 
lavabo basin, the bell, the thurible, the boat and spoon, and 
the cruets. It was a joy to all the Catholics who came to see the 
worship of God carried on with such splendour, when in so many 
places even necessaries were scarcely forthcoming. 

There was a little hiding-hole between the chapel and the 
priest’s room, just of a size to hold the altar furniture and the 
priest in case of a sudden alarm; and there were several others 
in the house too, which Mr. Buxton had showed to Anthony with 
a good deal of satisfaction, on the morning after his arrival. 

“T dared not show them to you the last time you were here,” 
he said, ‘‘and there was no need; but now there must be no delay. 
I have lately made some more, too. Now here is one,” he said, 
stopping before the great carved mantelpiece in the hall. 

He looked round to see that no servant was in the room, and 
then, standing on a settee before the fire, touched something 
above, and a circular hole large enough for a man to clamber 
through appeared in the midst of the tracery. 

“There,” he said, ‘and you will find some cured ham and a 
candle, with a few dates within, should you ever have need to 
step up there—which, pray God, you may not.” 

“What is the secret?” asked Anthony, as the tracery swung 
back into place, and his host stepped down. 

“Pull the third roebuck’s ears in the coat of arms, or rather 
push them. It closes with a spring, and is provided with a bolt. 
But I do not recommend that refuge unless it is necessary. In 
winter it is too hot, for the chimney passes behind it; and in 
summer it is too oppressive, for there is not too much air.” 

At the end of the corridor that led in the direction of the little 
old rooms where Anthony had slept in his visit, Mr. Buxton 
stopped before the portrait of a kindly-looking old gentleman that 
hung on the wall. 

‘Now there is an upright old man you would say; and indeed 
he was, for he was my own uncle, and made a godly end of it 
last year. But now see what a liar I have made of him!” 

Mr. Buxton put his hand behind the frame, and the whole 
picture opened like a door showing a space within where three 
or four could stand. Anthony stepped inside and his friend 
followed him, and after showing him some clothes hanging 
against the wall closed the picture after them, leaving them in the 
dark. 

‘“‘Now see what a sharp-eyed old fellow he is too,” whispered 


378 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


his host. Anthony looked where he was guided, and perceived 
two pinholes through which he could see the whole length of the 
corridor. 

“Through the centre of each eye,” whispered his friend. “Is he 
not shrewd and secret? And now turn this way.” 

Anthony turned round and saw the opposite wall slowly open- 
ing; and in a moment more he stepped out and found himself in 
the lobby outside the little room where he had made the exercises 
six years ago. He heard a door close softly as he looked about 
him in astonishment, and on turning round saw only an innocent- 
looking set of shelves with a couple of books and a little pile of 
paper and packet of quills upon them. 

“There,” said Mr. Buxton, “who would suspect Tacitus his 
history and Juvenal his satires of guarding the passage of a Chris- 
tian ecclesiastic fleeing for his life?” 

Then he showed him the secret, how one shelf had to be drawn 
out steadily, and the nail in another pressed simultaneously, and 
how then the entire set of shelves swung open. 

Then they went back and he showed him the spring behind the 
frame of the picture. 

“You see the advantage of this,” he went on: “‘on the one side 
you may flee upstairs, a treasonable skulking cassocked jack-priest 
with the lords and the commons and the Queen’s Majesty barking 
at your heels; and on the other side you may saunter down the 
gallery without your beard and in a murrey doublet, a friend of 
Mr. Buxton’s, taking the air and wondering what the devil all the 
clamouring be about.” 

Then he took him downstairs again and showed him finally 
the escape of which he was most proud—the entrance, designed 
in the cellar-staircase, to an underground passage from the 
cellars, which led, he told him, across the garden-house beyond 
the lime-avenue. 

“That is the pride of my heart,” he said, “and maybe will be 
useful some day; though I pray not. Ah! her Grace and her 
honest Council are right. We Papists are a crafty and deceitful 
folk, Father Anthony.” 


The four grew very intimate during those few weeks; they 
had many memories and associations in common on which to 
build up friendship, and the aid of a common faith and a common 
peril with which to cement it. The gracious beauty of the house 
and the life at Stanfield, too, gilded it all with a very charming 


STANFIELD PLACE 379 


romance. They were all astonished at the easy intimacy with 
which they behaved, one to another. 

Mary Corbet was obliged to return to her duties at Court at 
the beginning of September; and she had something of an ache at 
her heart as the time drew on; for she had fallen once more 
seriously in love with Isabel. She said a word of it to Mr. 
Buxton. They were walking in the lime-avenue together after 
dinner on the last day of Mary’s visit. 

“You have a good chaplain,” she said; ‘‘what an honest lad 
he is! and how serious and recollected! Please God he at least 
may escape their claws!” 

“Tt is often so,” said Mr. Buxton, “with those wholesome out- 
of-door boys; they grow up into such simple men of God.” 

“And Isabel!” said Mary, rustling round upon him as she 
walked. “What a great dame she is become! I used to lie on 
her bed and kick my heels and laugh at her; but now I would 
like to say my prayers to her. She is somewhat like our Lady 
herself, so grave and serious, and yet so warm and tender.” 

Mr. Buxton nodded sharply. 

“T felt sure you would feel it,” he said. 

“Ah! but I knew here when she was just a child; so simple 
that I loved to startle her. But now—but now—those two ladies 
have done wonders with her. She has all the splendour of Mary 
Maxwell, and all the softness of Margaret.” 

“Yes,” said the other meditatively; “‘the two ladies have done 
it—or, the grace of God.” 

Mary looked at him sideways and her lips twitched a little. 

““Yes—or the grace of God, as you say.” 

The two laughed into each other’s eyes, for they understood one 
another well. Presently Mary went on: 

“When you and I fence together at table, she does not turn 
frigid like so many holy folk—or peevish and bewildered like 
stupid folk—but she just looks at us, and laughs far down in 
those deep grey eyes of hers. Oh! I love her!” ended Mary. 

They walked in silence a minute or two. 

“And I think I do,” said Mr. Buxton softly. : 

“Eh!” exclaimed Mary, ‘‘you do what?” She had quite for- 
gotten her last sentence. 

“It is no matter,” he said yet more softly; and would say no 
more. 

Presently the talk fell on the Maxwells; and came round to 
Hubert. 


380 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“They say he would be a favourite at Court,” said Mary, “had 
he not a wife. But her Grace likes not married men. She 
looked kindly upon him at Deptford, I know; and I have seen him 
at Greenwich. You know, of course, about Isabel?” 

Mr. Buxton shook his head. 

“Why, it was common talk that they would have been man 
and wife years ago, had not the fool apostatised.” 

Her companion questioned her further, and soon had the whole 
story out of her. ‘But I am thankful,” ended Mary, “that it has 
so ended.” 

The next day she went back to Court; and it was with real 
grief that the three watched her wonderful plumed riding-hat 
trot along behind the top of the churchyard wall, with her woman 
beside her, and her little liveried troop of men following at a 
distance. 

The days passed by, bringing strange tidings to Stanfield. 
News continued to reach the Catholics of the good confessions 
witnessed here and there in England by priests and laity. At 
the end of July, three priests, Garlick, Ludlam and Sympson, 
had been executed at Derby, and at the end of August the defeat 
of the Armada seemed to encourage Elizabeth yet further, and 
Mr. Leigh, a priest, with four laymen and Mistress Margaret 
Ward, died for their religion at Tyburn. 

By the end of September the news of the hopeless defeat and 
disappearance of the Armada had by now been certified over and 
over again. ‘Terrible stories had come in during August of that 
northward flight of all that was left of the fleet over the plunging 
North Sea up into the stormy coast of Scotland; then rumours 
began of the miseries that were falling on the Spaniards off 
Treland—Catholic Ireland from which they had hoped so much. 
There was scarcely a bay or a cape along the west coast where 
some ship had not put in, with piteous entreaties for water and 
aid—and scarcely a bay or a cape that was not blood-guilty. 
Along the straight coast from Sligo Bay westwards, down the 
west coast, Clew Bay, Connemara, and haunted Dingle itself, 
where the Catholic religion under arms had been so grievously 
chastened eight years ago—everywhere half-drowned or half- 
starved Spaniards, piteously entreating, were stripped and put to 
the sword either by the Irish savages or the English gentlemen. 
The church-bells were rung in Stanfield and in every English 
village, and the flame of national pride and loyalty burned fiercer 
and higher than ever. 


STANFIELD PLACE 381 


On the last day of September Isabel, just before dinner in her 
room, heard the trot of a couple of horses coming up the 
drive, and on going downstairs almost ran against Hubert as he 
came from the corridor into the hall, as the servant ushered him in. 

The two stopped and looked at one another in silence. 

Hubert was flushed with hard riding and looked excited; 
Isabel’s face showed nothing but pleasure and surprise. 

Then Isabel put out her hand, smiling; and her voice was 
natural and controlled. 

“Why, Mr. Hubert,” she said, “it is you! Come through this 
way”; and she nodded to the servant, who opened the door of 
the little parlour and stood back, as Isabel swept by him. 

When the door was closed, and the servant’s footsteps had 
died away, Hubert, as he stood facing Isabel, spoke at last. 

“Mistress Isabel,” he said almost imploringly, “what can I say 
to you? Your home has been wrecked; and partly through those 
wild and foolish words of mine; and you repay it by that act of 
kindness to my wife! I am come to ask your pardon, and to 
thank you. I only reached home last night.” 

“Ah! that was nothing,” said Isabel gently; ‘‘and as for the 
house——”’ 

““As for the house,” he said, “‘I was not master of myself when 
I said those words that Grace told you of; and I entreat you 
to let me repair the damage.” 

“No, no,” she said, “Anthony has given orders; that will all 
be done.” 

“But what can I do then?” he cried passionately; “if you but 
knew my sorrow—and—and—more than that, my é 

Isabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in 
the face now; and he stopped abashed. 

‘How is Grace, and Mercy?” she asked in perfectly even tones. 

“Oh! Isabel ” he began; and again she looked at him, and 
then went to the door. 

“T hear Mr. Buxton,” she said; and steps came along through 
the hall; she opened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped 
abruptly, and the two men drew themselves up and seemed to 
stiffen, ever so slightly. A shade of aggressive contempt came 
on Hubert’s keen brown face that towered up so near the low 
oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton’s eyelids just drooped, and his 
features seemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: 
Isabel broke it. 

“You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?” she said almost 








382 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


entreatingly. He smiled kindly at her, but his face hardened 
again as he turned once more to Hubert. 

“TJ remember the gentleman perfectly,” he said, “‘and he no 
doubt knows me, and why I cannot ask him to remain and dine 
with us.” 

Hubert smiled brutally. 

“Tt is the old story of course, the Faith! I must ask your 
pardon, sir, for intruding. The difficulty never came into my 
mind. The truth is that I have lived so long now among Protes- 
tants that I had quite forgotten what Catholic charity is like!” 

He said this with such: extreme bitterness and fury that Isabel 
put out her hand instinctively to Mr. Buxton, who smiled at her 
once more, and pressed it in his own. Hubert laughed again 
sharply; his face grew white under the tan, and his lips wrinkled 
back once or twice. 

“So, if you can spare me room to pass,” he went on in the 
same tone, ‘I will begone to the inn.” 

Mr. Buxton stepped aside from the door, and Hubert bowed 
to Isabel so low that it was almost an insult in itself, and strode 
out, his spurs ringing on the oak boards. 

When he half turned outside the front door to beckon to his 
groom to bring up the horses, he became aware that Isabel was 
beside him. 

“Hubert,” she said, ‘““Hubert, I cannot bear this.” 

There were tears in her voice, and he could not help turning 
and looking at her. Her face, more grave and transparent than 
ever, was raised to his; her red down-turned lips were trembling, 
and her eyes were full of a great emotion. He turned away again 
sharply. 

“Hubert,” she said again, “I was not born a Catholic, and I 
do not feel like Mr. Buxton. And—and I do thank you for 
coming; and for your desire to repair the house; and—and will 
you give my love to Grace?” 

Then he suddenly turned to her with such passion in his eyes 
that she shrank back. At the same moment the groom brought 
up the horses; he turned and mounted without a word, but his 
eyes were dim with love and anger and jealousy. Then he drove 
his spurs into his great grey mare, and Isabel watched him dash 
between the iron gates, with his groom only half mounted holding 
back his own plunging horse. Then she went within doors again. 


EE y 


CHAPTER V 
JOSEPH LACKINGTON 


It was a bitter ride back to Great Keynes for Hubert. He had 
just returned from watching the fifty vessels, which were all 
that were left of the Great Armada, pass the Blaskets, still under 
the nominal command of Medina Sidonia, on their miserable 
return to Spain; and he had come back as fast as sails could 
carry him, round the stormy Land’s-End up along the south 
coast to Rye, where on his arrival he had been almost worshipped 
by the rejoicing townsfolk. Yet all through his voyage and 
adventures, at any rate since his interview with her at Rye, it 
had been the face of Isabel there, and not of Grace, that had 
glimmered to him in the dark, and led him from peril to peril. 
Then, at last, on his arrival at home, he had heard of the disaster 
to the Dower House, and his own unintended share in it; and 
of Isabel’s generous visit to his wife; and at that he had ordered 
his horse abruptly over-night and ridden off without a word of 
explanation to Grace on the following morning. And he had been 
met by a sneering man who would not sit at table with him, and 
who was the protector and friend of Isabel. 


He rode up through the village just after dark and in through 
the gatehouse up to the steps. A man ran to open the door, and 
as Hubert came through told him that a stranger had ridden 
down from London and had arrived at mid-day, and that he 
had been waiting ever since. 

“TI gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and 
he is at supper now,” added the man. 

Hubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his 
name called timidly from upstairs, and looking up saw his wife’s 
golden head over the banisters. 

“Well!” he said. 

“Ah, it is you. I am so glad.” 

“Who else should it be?” said Hubert, and passed through 
towards the cloister wing, and opened the door of the little 


383 


384 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


parlour where Isabel and Mistress Margaret had sat together 
years before, the night of Mr. James’ return, and of the girl’s 
decision. 

A stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great 
deference. Hubert knew his face, but could not remember his 
name. 

“T ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take 
no denial,” and he indicated the supper-table with a steaming 
dish and a glass jug of wine ruddy in the candle-light. Huber 
looked at him curiously. 


“I know you, sir,” he said, “but I cannot put a name to your 


face.” 

‘“Lackington,” said the man with a half smile; “Joseph 
Lackington.” 

Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh. 

““Why, yes,” he said; “I know now. My father’s servant.” 

‘The man bowed. 

“Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham,” 
‘he said, with something of dignity in his manner. 

Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer. 

“Why, Iam pleased to see you,” he said. “You have come to 
see your old—home?” and he threw himself into a chair and 
stretched his legs to the blaze, for he was stiff with riding. 
Lackington instantly sat down too, for his pride was touched. 

“It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell,” he said almost in the tone 
of an equal, “but on a mission for Sir Francis.” 

Hubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candle- 
light, with his arm resting easily on the table. He was plainly 
prosperous, and was even dressed with some distinction; his red- 
dish beard was trimmed to a point; his high forehead was 
respectably white and bald; and his seals hung from his belt 
beside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity. Perhaps he 
was of some importance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsingham 
was. Hubert sat up a little. 

““A mission to me?” he said. 

Lackington nodded. 

““A few questions on a matter of state.” 

He drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis author- 
ising him as an agent, for one month, and dated three days back; 
and handed it to Hubert. 


a 
~ 


“TI obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. 


You can trust me implicitly.” 


Ee i a 


JOSEPH LACKINGTON 385 


“Will the business take long?” asked Hubert, handing the paper 
back. 

“No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. 
I have to be at Rye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at 
Mayfield to-night.” 

““At Rye,” said Hubert, “why I came from there yesterday.” 

Lackington bowed again, as if he were quite aware of this; 
but said nothing. 

“Then I will sup here,” went on Hubert, “and we will talk 
meantime.” 

When a place had been laid for him, he drew his chair round 
to the table and began to eat. 

“May I begin at once?” asked Lackington, who had finished. 

Hubert nodded. 

“Then first I believe it to be a fact that you spoke with Mistress 
Isabel Norris on board the Elizabeth at Rye on the tenth of 
August last.” 

Hubert had started violently at her name; but did his utmost 
to gain outward command of himself again immediately. 

“Well?” he said. 

—‘“‘And with Master Anthony Norris, lately made a priest 
beyond the seas.” 

“That is a lie,” said Hubert. 

Lackington politely lifted his eyebrows. 

“Indeed?” he said. “That he was made a priest, or that you 
spoke with him?” 

“That I know aught of him,” said Hubert. His heart was beat- 
ing furiously. 

Lackington made a note rather ostentatiously; he could see that 
Hubert was frightened, and thought that it was because of a 
possible accusation of having dealings with a traitor. 

“And as regards Mistress Norris,” he said judicially, with his 
pencil raised, ‘“you deny having spoken with her?” 

Hubert was thinking furiously. Then he saw that Lackington 
knew too much for its being worth his own while to deny it. 

“No, I never denied that,” he said, lifting his fork to his 
mouth; and he went on eating with a deliberate ease as Lacking- 
ton again made a note. 

The next question was a home-thrust. 

“Where are they both now?” asked Lackington, looking at him. 
Hubert’s mind laboured like a mill. 

“T do not know,” he said. 


386 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“You swear it?” 

“I swear it.” 

“Then Mistress Norris has changed her plans?” said Lacking- 
ton swiftly. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Why she told you where they were going when you met?” 
said the other in a remonstrating tone. 

Hubert suddenly saw the game. If the authorities really knew 
that, it would have been a useless question. He stared at Lack- 
ington with an admirable vacancy. 

“Indeed she did not,” he said. “For aught I know, they—she 
is in France again.” 

“They?” said Lackington shrewdly. ‘‘Then you do know 
somewhat of the priest?” 

But Hubert was again too sharp. 

“Only what you told me just now, when you said he was at 
Rye. I supposed you were telling the truth.” 

Lackington passed his hand smoothly over his mouth and 
beard, and smiled. Either Hubert was very sharp or else he had 
told everything; and he did not believe him sharp. 

“Thank you, Mr. Maxwell,” he said, with a complete dropping 
of his judicial manner. “I will not pretend not to be disap- 
pointed; but I believe what you say about France is true; and 
that it is no use looking for him further.” 

Hubert experienced an extraordinary relief. He had saved 
Isabel. He drank off a glass of claret. ‘Tell me everything,” 
he said. 

“Well,” said Lackington, “Mr. Thomas Hamon is my inform- 
ant. He sent up to Sir Francis the message that a lady of the 
name of Norris had been introduced to him at Rye; because 
he thought he remembered some stir in the county several years 
ago about some reconciliations to Rome connected with that name. 
Of course we knew everything about that: and we have our 
agents at the seminaries too; sc we concluded that she was one 
of our birds; the rest, of course, was guesswork. Mr. Norris has 
certainly left Douai for England; and he may possibly even now 
be in England; but from your information and others’, I now 
believe that Mistress Isabel came across first, and that she 
found the country too hot, what with the Spaniards and. all; 
and that she returned to France at once. Of course during that 
dreadful week, Mr Maxwell, we could not be certain of all vessels 
that came and went; so I think she just slipped across again; 


JOSEPH LACKINGTON 387 


and that they are both waiting in France. We shall keep good 
watch now at the ports, I can promise you.” 

Hubert’s emotions were varied during this speech. First 
shame at having entirely forgotten the mayor of Rye and his 
own introduction of Isabel to him; then astonishment at the 
methods of Walsingham’s agents; and lastly intense triumph and 
relief at having put them off Isabel’s track. For Anthony, too, 
he had nothing but kindly feelings; so, on the whole, he thought 
he had done well for his friends. 

The two talked a little longer; Lackington was a stimulating 
companion from both his personality and his position; and 
Hubert found himself almost sorry when his companion said he 
must be riding on to Mayfield. As he walked out with him to 
the front door, he suddenly thought of Mr. Buxton again and 
his reception in the afternoon. They had wandered in their con- 
versation so far from the Norrises by now that he felt sure he 
could speak of him without doing them any harm. So, as they 
stood on the steps together, waiting for Lackington’s horse to 
come round, he suddenly said: 

“Do you know aught of one Buxton, who lives somewhere 
near Tonbridge, I think?” 

“Buxton, Buxton?” said the other. 

“T met him in town once,” went on Hubert smoothly; “a little 
man, dark, with large eyes, and looks somewhat like a French- 
man.” 

“Buxton, Buxton?” said the other again. “A Papist, is 
he not?” 

“Ves,” said Hubert, hoping to get some information against 
him. 

‘““A friend?” asked Lackington. 

“No,” said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington 
looked at him. 

“T remember him,” he said in a moment; “the was imprisoned 
at Wisbeach six or seven years ago. But I do not think he has 
been in trouble since. You wish, you wish ?” he went on 
interrogatively. 

“Nothing,” said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in 
his eyes. 

The horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said 
good-bye to Hubert with a touch of the old deference again, and 
mounted. Hubert watched him out under the gatehouse-lamp into 
the night beyond, and then he went in again, pondering. 





388 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


His wife was waiting for him in the hall now—a delicate 
golden-haired figure, with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. 
She ran to him and took his arm timidly in her two hands. 

“Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert.” 

He looked down at her almost contemptuously. 

“Why, you know nothing of him!” he said. 

“Not much,” she said, ‘‘but he asked me so many questions.” 

Hubert started and looked suddenly at her, in terror. 

“Oh, Hubert!” she said, shrinking back frightened. 

“Questions!” he said, seizing her hands. ‘‘Questions of whom?” 

““Of—of—NMistress Isabel Norris,” she said, almost crying. 

‘“‘And—and—what did you say? Did you tell him?” 

“Oh, Hubert!—I am so sorry—ah! do not look like that.” 

“What did you say? What did you say?” he said between 
his teeth. 

‘“‘{—I--told a lie, Hubert; I said I had never seen her.” 

Hubert took his wife suddenly in his two arms and kissed her 
three or four times. 

“You darling, you darling!” he said; and then stooped and 
picked her up, and carried her upstairs, with her head against 
his cheek, and her tears running down because he was pleased 
with her, instead of angry. 

They went upstairs and he set her down softly outside the 
nursery door. 

“Hush,” she said, smiling up at him; and then softly opened 
the door and listened, her finger on her lip; there was no sound 
from within; then she pushed the door open gently, and the wife 
and husband went in. 

There was a shaded taper still burning in a high bracket where 
an image of the Mother of God had stood in the Catholic days 
of the house. Hubert glanced up at it and remembered it, with 
just a touch at his heart. Beneath it was a little oak cot, where 
his four-year-old boy lay sleeping; the mother went across and 
bent over it, and Hubert leaned his brown sinewy hands on the 
end of the cot and watched him. There his son lay, with tangled 
curls on the pillow; his finger was on his lips as if he bade silence 
even to thought. Hubert looked up, and just above the bed, 
where the crucifix used to hang when he himself had slept in this 
nursery, probably on the very same nail, he thought to himself, 
was a rusty Spanish spur that he himself had found in a sea-chest 
of the San Juan. The boy had hung up with a tarry bit of string 
this emblem of his father’s victory, as a protection while he slept. 


JOSEPH LACKINGTON 389 


The child stirred in his sleep and murmured as the two watched 
him. 

‘“‘Father’s home again,” whispered the mother. “It is all well. 
Go to sleep again.” 

When she looked up again to her husband, he was gone. 


It was not often that Hubert had regrets for the Faith he had 
lost; but to-night things had conspired to prick him. There was. 
, his rebuff from Mr. Buxton; there was the sight of Isabel in the 
dignified grace that he had noticed so plainly before; there had 
been the interview with the ex-Catholic servant, now a spy of 
the Government, and a remorseless enemy of all Catholics; and 
lastly there were the two little external reminders of the niche 
and the nail over his son’s bed. 

He sat long before the fire in Sir Nicholas’ old room, now his 
own study. As he lay back and looked about him, how different 
this all was, too! ‘The mantelpiece was almost unaltered; the 
Maxwell devices, two-headed eagles, hurcheons and saltires, on 
crowded shields, interlaced with the motto Reviresco, all newly 
gilded since his own accession to the estate, rose up in deep shadow 
and relief; but over it, instead of the little old picture of the 
Vernacle that he remembered as a child, hung his own sword. 
Was that a sign of progress? he wondered. The tapestry on the 
east wall was the same, a hawking scene with herons and ladies 
in immense headdresses that he had marvelled at as a boy. But 
then the books on the shelves to the right of the door, they were 
different; there had been old devotional books in his father’s 
time, mingled strangely with small works on country life and 
sports; now the latter only remained, and the nearest to a devo- 
tional book was a volume of a mystical herbalist who identified 
plants with virtues, strangely and ingeniously. Then the prie- 
dieu, where the beads had hung and the little wooden shield with 
the Five Wounds painted upon it—that was gone; and in its 
place hung a cupboard where he kept a cross-bow and a few 
tools for it; and old hawk-lures and jesses and the like. 

Then he lay back again, and thought. 

Had he then behaved unworthily? This old Faith that had 
been handed down from father and son for generations; that had 
been handed to him too as the most precious heirloom of all— 
for which his father had so gladly suffered fines and imprison- 
ment, and risked death—he had thrown it over, and for what? 
For Isabel, he confessed to himself; and then the—the Power 


390 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


that stands behind the visible had cheated him and withdrawn 
that for which he had paid over that great price. Was that a 
reckless and brutal bargain on his side—to throw over this strange 
delicate thing called the Faith for which so many millions had 
lived and died, all for a woman’s love? A curious kind of family 
pride in the Faith began to prick him. After all, was not honour 
in a manner bound up with it too; and most of all when such 
heavy penalties attached themselves to the profession of it? 
Was that the moment when he should be the first of his line to 
abandon it? 

Reviresco—“I renew my springtide.” But was not this a 
strange grafting—a spur for a crucifix, a crossbow for a place of 
prayer? Reviresco—There was sap indeed in the old tree; but 
from what soil did it draw its strength? 

His heart began to burn with something like shame, as it had 
burned now and again at intervals during these past years. Here 
he lay back in his father’s chair in his father room, the first 
Protestant of the Maxwells. Then he passed on to a memory. 

As he closed his eyes, he could see even now the chapel up- 
stairs, with the tapers alight and the stiff figure of the priest in 
the midst of the glow; he could smell the flowers on the altar, 
the June roses strewn on the floor in the old manner, and their 
fresh dewy scent mingled with the fragrance of the rich incense 
in an intoxicating chord; he could hear the rustle that empha- 
sised the silence, as his mother rose from his side and went up 
for communion, and the breathing of the servants behind him. 

Then for contrast he remembered the whitewashed church 
where he attended now with his wife, Sunday by Sunday, the 
pulpit occupied by the black figure of the virtuous Mr. Bodder 
pronouncing his discourse, the great texts that stood out in their 
new paint from the walls, the table that stood out unashamed 
and sideways in the midst of the chancel. And which of the two 
worships was most like God? .. . 

Then he compared the worshippers in either mode. Well, 
Drake, his hero, was a convinced Protestant; the bravest man 
he had ever met or dreamed of—fiery, pertinacious, gloriously 
insolent. He thought of his sailors, on whom a portion of Drake’s 
spirit fell, their gallantry, their fearlessness of death and of all 
that comes after; of Mr. Bodder, who was now growing middle- 
aged in the Vicarage—yes, indeed, they were all admirable in 
various ways, but were they like Christ? | 

On the other hand, his father, in spite of his quick temper, his 


PO 


JOSEPH LACKINGTON 391 


mother, brother, aunt, the priests who came and went by night, 
Isabel—and at that he stopped: and like a deep voice in his ear 
rose up the last tremendous question, What if the Catholic Re- 
ligion be true after all? And at that the supernatural began to 
assert itself. It seemed as if the empty air were full of this 
question, rising in intensity and emphasis. What if it is true? 
What if it is true? What if it is true? 

He sat bolt upright and looked sharply round the room; the 
candles burned steadily in the sconce near the door. The tapestry 
lifted and dropped noiselessly in the draught; the dark corners 
beyond the press and in the window recesses suggested presences 
that waited; the wide chimney sighed suddenly once. 

Was that a voice in his ear just now, or only in his heart? But 
in either case 

He made an effort to command himself, and looked again 
steadily round the room; but there seemed no one there. But 
what if the old tale be true? In that case he is not alone in this 
little oak room, for there is no such thing as loneliness. In that 
case he is sitting in full sight of Almighty God, whom he has 
insulted; and of the saints whose power he has repudiated; and 
of the angels good and bad who have Ah! what was that? 
There had seemed to come a long sigh somewhere behind him; 
on his left surely——What was it? Some wandering soul? Was 
it, could it be the soul of one who had loved him and desired 
to warn him before it was too late? Could it have been 
and then it came again; and the hair prickled on his head. 

How deathly still it is, and how cold! Ah! was that a rustle 
outside; a tap? . . . In God’s name, who can that be? ... 

And then Hubert licked his dry lips and brought them together 
and smiled at Grace, who had come down, opening the doors as 
she came, to see why he had not come to bed. 

Bah! what a superstitious fool he was, after all! 











CHAPTER VI 
A DEPARTURE 


THE months went by happily at Stanfield; and, however ill went 
the fortunes of the Church elsewhere, here at least were peace 
and prosperity. Most discouraging news indeed did reach them 
from time to time. The severe penalties now enacted against 
the practice of the Catholic Religion were being enforced with 
great vigour, and the weak members of the body began to fail. 
Two priests had apostatised at Chichester earlier in the year, one 
of them actually at the scaffold on Broyle Heath; and then in 
December there were two more recantations at Paul’s Cross. 
Those Catholics too who threw up the Faith generally became 
the most aggressive among the persecutors, to testify to their 
own consciences, as well to the Protestants, of the sincerity of 
their conversion. 

But in Stanfield the Church flourished, and Anthony had the 
great happiness of receiving his first convert in the person of Mr. 
Rowe, the young owner of a house called East Maskells, separated 
from Stanfield Place by a field-path of under a mile in length, 
though the road round was over two; and the comings and go- 
ings were frequent now between the two houses. Mr. Rowe was 
at present unmarried, and had his aunt to keep house for him, a 
tolerant old maiden lady who had conformed placidly to the 
Reformed Religion thirty years before, and was now grown con- 
tent with it. Several ‘“‘schismatics” too—as those Catholics were 
called who attended their parish church—had waxed bolder, and 
given up their conformity to the Establishment; so it was a happy 
and courageous flock that gathered Sunday by Sunday at Stan- 
field Place. 


Just before Christmas, Anthony received a long and affectionate 
letter from James Maxwell, who was still at Douai. 

“The Rector will still have me here,” he wrote, “and shows me 
to the young men as if I were a kind of warrior; which is bad 


392 


A DEPARTURE 303 


for pride; but then he humbles me again by telling me I am of 
more use here as an example, than I should be in England; and 
that humbles me again. So I am content to stay. It is a 
humbling thing, too, to find young men who can tell me the 
history of my arms and legs better than I know it myself. But 
the truth is, I can never walk well again—yet laudetur Jesus 
Christus.’ 

Then James Maxwell wrote a little about his grief for Hubert; 
gave a little news of foreign movements among the Catholics; 
and finally ended as follows: 

“At last I understand who your friend was behind Bow 
Church, who stuttered and played the Catholic so well. It was 
our old servant Lackington; who turned Protestant and entered 
Walsingham’s service. I hear all this from one P. lately in the 
same affairs, but now turned to Christ his service instead; and 
who has entered here as a student. So beware of him; he has a 
pointed beard now, and a bald forehead. I hear, too, from the 
same source that he was on your track when you landed, but now 
thinks you to be in France. However, he knows of you; so I 
counsel you not to abide over long in one place. Perhaps you 
may go to Lancashire; that is like heaven itself for Catholics. 
Their zeal and piety there are beyond praise; but I hear they 
somewhat lack priests. God keep you always, my dear Brother; 
and may the Queen of Heaven intercede for you. Pray for me.” 


Soon after the New Year, Mary Corbet was able to get away 
from Court and come down again to her friends for a month or 
two at Stanfield. 

During her stay they all had an adventure together at East 
Maskells. They had been out a long expedition into the woods 
one clear frosty day and rode in just at sunset for an early 
supper with Mr. Rowe and his aunt. 

They had left their horses at the stable and come in round the 
back of the house; so that they missed the servant Miss Rowe 
had placed at the front door to warn them, and came straight 
into the winter-parlour, where they found Miss Rowe in conver- 
sation with an ecclesiastic. There was no time to retreat; and 
Anthony in a moment more found himself being introduced to a 
minister he had met at Lambeth more than once—the Reverend 
Robert Carr, who had held the odd title of ‘“‘Archbishop’s Curate” 
and the position of minister in charge of the once collegiate church 
of All Saints’, Maidstone, ever since the year ’59. He had ridden 


394 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


up from Maidstone for supper and lodging, and was on his way 
to town. 

Anthony managed to interrupt Miss Rowe before she came to 
his assumed name Capell, and remarked rather loudly that he 
had met Mr. Carr before; who recognised him too, and greeted 
him by his real name. 

It was an uncomfortable situation, as Mr. Carr was quite un- 
aware of the religion of five out of six of those present, and very 
soon began to give voice to his views on Papistry. He was an 
oldish man by now, and of some importance in Maidstone, where 
he had been appointed Jurat by the Corporation, and was a very 
popular and influential man. 

“The voice of the people,” he said in the midst of a conversa- 
tion on the national feeling towards Spain, ‘“‘that is what we 
must hearken to. Even sovereigns themselves must come to that 
some day. They must rule by obeying; as man does with God’s 
laws in nature.” | 

“Would you say that, sir, of her Grace?” asked Mary Corbet 
meekly. 

“YT should, madam; though I fear she has injured her power 
by her behaviour this year. It was her people who saved her.— 
Hawkins, who is now ruined as he says; my lord Howard, who 
has paid from his own purse for the meat and drink of her Grace’s 
soldiers, and those who fought with them; and not her Grace, 
who saved them; or Leicester, now gone to his account, who sat 
at Tilbury and did the bowing and the prancing and the talking 
while Hawkins and the rest did the fighting. No, madam, it is 
the voice of the people to which we must hearken.” 

This was rather confused and dangerous talking too; but here 
was plainly a man to be humoured; he looked round him with a 
suffused face and the eye of a cock, and a little white plume on 
his forehead increased his appearance of pugnacity. 

“It is the same in religion,” he said, when all preserved a 
deferential silence; “‘it is that that lies at the root of papist errors. 
As you know very well,” he went on, turning suddenly on 
Anthony, ‘‘our bishops do nothing to guide men’s minds; they 
only seem to: they ride atop like the figure on a cock-horse, but 
it is the legs beneath that do the work and the guiding too: 
now that is right and good; and the Church of England will 
prosper so long as she goes like that. But if the bishops try to 
rule they will find their mistake. Now the Popish Church is not 
like that; she holds that power comes from above, that the Pope 


A DEPARTURE 395 
guides the bishops, the bishops the priests, and the priests the 


e.” 

“And the Holy Ghost the Pope; is it not so, sir?” asked Mr. 
Buxton. 

Mr. Carr turned an eye on him. 

“So they hold, sir,” he said after a pause. 

“They think then, sir, that the shepherds guide the sheep?” 
asked Anthony humbly. 

Mary Corbet gave a yelp of laughter; but when Mr. Carr 
looked at her she was grave and deferential again. Miss Rowe 
looked entreatingly from face to face. The minister did not 
notice Anthony’s remark; but swept on again on what was plainly 
his favourite theme,—the infallibility of the people. It was a 
doctrine that was hardly held yet by any; but the next century 
was to see its gradual rise until it reached its climax in the Puri- 
tanism of the Stuart times. It was true, as Mr. Carr said, that 
Elizabeth had ruled by obeying; and that the people of England, 
encouraged by success in resisting foreign domination, were about 
to pass on to the second position of resisting any domination 
at all. 

Presently he pulled out of his pocket a small printed sheet, 
and was soon declaiming from it. It was not very much to the 
point, except as illustrating the national spirit which he believed 
so divine. It was a ballad describing the tortures which the 
Spaniards had intended to inflict upon the heretic English, and 
began: 

“All you that list to look and see 
What profit comes from Spain, 

And what the Pope and Spaniards both 
Prepared for our gain. 

Then turn your eyes and lend your ears 
And you shall hear and see 


What courteous minds, what gentle hearts, 
They bear to thee and me!” 


And it ended in the same spirit: 


“Be these the men that are so mild 
Whom some so holy call! 

The Lorp defend our noble Queen 
And country from them all!” 


“There!” the minister cried when he had done, “that is what 
the Papists are like! Trust me; I know them. I should know 


396 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


one in a moment if he ventured into this room, by his crafty face. 
But the Lord will defend His own Englishmen; nay! He has done 
so. ‘God blew and they were scattered,’ ” he ended, quoting from 
the Armada medal. 


As the four rode home by pairs across the field-path in the 
frosty moonlight Mr. Buxton lamented to Anthony the effect of 
the Armada. 

“The national spirit is higher than ever,” he said, ‘‘and it will 
be the death of Catholicism here for the present. Our country 
squires, I fear, faithful Catholics to this time, are beginning to 
wonder and question. When will our Catholic kings learn that 
Christ His Kingdom is not of this world? Philip has smitten 
the Faith in England with the weapon which he drew in its 
defence, as he thought.” 

“T was once of that national spirit myself,” said Anthony. 

“T remember you were,” said Mr. Buxton, smiling; ‘and what 
grace has done to you it may do to others.” 


The spring went by, and in the week after Easter, James’ news 
about Lancashire was verified by a letter from a friend of Mr. 
Buxton’s, a Mr. Norreys, the owner of one of the staunch Catholic 
houses, Speke Hall, on the bank of the Mersey. 

“Here,” he wrote, “by the mercy of God there is no lack of 
priests, though there be none to spare; my own chaplain says 
mass by dispensation thrice on Sunday; but on the moors the 
sheep look up and are not fed; and such patient sheep! I heard 
but last week of a church where the folk resort, priest or no, each 
Sunday to the number of two hundred, and are led by a lector 
in devotion, ending with an act of spiritual communion made all 
together. These damnable heresies of which the apostle wrote 
have not poisoned the springs of sound doctrine; some of us 
here know naught yet of Elizabeth and her supremacy, or even of 
seven-wived Harry his reformation. Send us then, dear friend, 
a priest, or least the promise of one; lest we perish quite.” 

Mr. Buxton had a sore struggle with himself over this letter; 
but at last he carried it to Anthony. 

“Read that,’”’ he said; and stood waiting. 

Anthony looked up when he had done. 

“T am your chaplain,” he said, “but I am God’s priest first.” 

“Yes, dear lad,” said his friend, “I feared you would say so; 
and I will say so to Norreys”’; and he left the room at once. 


A DEPARTURE 307 


And so at last it come to be arranged that Anthony should 
leave for Lancashire at the end of July; and that after his de- 
parture Stanfield should be served occasionally by the priest who 
lived on the outskirts of Tonbridge; but the daily mass would 
have to cease, and that was a sore trouble to Mr. Buxton. No 
definite decision could be made as to when Anthony could return; 
that must wait until he saw the needs of Lancashire; but he hoped 
to be able at least to pay a visit to Stanfield again in the spring 
of the following year. 

It was arranged also, of course, that Isabel should accompany 
her brother. They were both of large independent means, and 
could travel in some dignity; and her presence would be under 
these circumstances a protection as well as a comfort to Anthony. 
It would need very great sharpness to detect the seminary priest 
under Anthony’s disguise, and amid the surroundings of his 
cavalcade of four or five armed servants, a French maid, and a 
distinguished-looking lady. 

Yet, in spite of this, Mr. Buxton resolved to do his utmost to 
prevent Isabel from going to Lancashire; partly, of course, he 
disliked the thought of the dangers and hardships that she was 
certain to encounter; but the real motive was that he had fallen 
very deeply in love with her. It was her exceptional serenity 
that seemed to him her greatest charm; her movements, her face, 
her grey eyes, the very folds of her dress seemed to breathe with 
it; and to one of Mr. Buxton’s temperament such a presence was 
cool and sweet and strangely fascinating. 

It was now April, and he resolved to devote the next month or 
two to preparing her for his proposal; and he wrote frankly to 
Mary Corbet telling her how matters stood, entreating her to 
come down for July and counsel him. Mary wrote back at once, 
rather briefly, promising to come; but not encouraging him 
greatly. 

“YT would I could cheer you more,” she wrote; “of course I 
have not seen Isabel since January; but, unless she has changed, 
I do not think she will marry you. I am writing plainly you see, 
as you ask in your letter. But I can still say, God prosper you.” 


As the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew 
yet more silent. As the evenings began to lengthen out she used 
to spend much time before and after supper in walking up and 
down the clipped lime avenue between the east end of the 
church and the great gates that looked over the meadows across 


398 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


which the stream and the field-path ran towards East Maskells. 
Mr. Buxton would watch her sometimes from an upstairs window, 
himself unseen, and occasionally would go out and talk with her; 
but he found it harder than he used to get on to intimate rela- 
tions; and he began to suspect that he had displeased her in 
some way, and that Mary Corbet was right. In the afternoon 
she and Anthony would generally ride out together, once or twice 
going round by Penshurst, and their host would torture himself 
by his own indecision as regards accompanying them; sometimes 
doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever he did. 
More and more he began to look forword to Mary’s coming and 
the benefit of her advice; and at last, at the end of June, she came. 

Their first evening together was delightful for them all. She 
was happy at her escape from Court; her host was happy at the 
prospect of her counsel; and all four were happy at being to- 
gether again. 

They did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an 
hour, because Mary had not come, and when she did arrive she 
was full of excitement. 

“T will tell you all at supper,” she said to her host, whom she 
met in the hall. “Oh! how late I am!” and she whirled past him 
and upstairs without another word. 


“JT will first give you the news in brief,” she said, when 
Anthony had said grace and they were seated, all four of them as 
before; and the trumpet-flourish was silent that had announced 
the approach of the venison. 

“Mutton’s new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; 
he hath been saying favourable things for some of us poor papists, 
and hath rated the Precisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is 
wroth with him; but that is no matter—Her Grace played at 
cards till two of the clock this morning, and that is why I am 
so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had to sit up too; and that is 
a great matter—Drake and Norris, ’tis said, have whipped the 
dons again at Corunna; and the Queen has sworn to pull my 
lord Essex his ears for going with them and adventuring his 
precious self; and that is no matter at all, but will do him good.— 
George Luttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster, 


which is a great matter to him, but to none else;—and I have 


robbed a highwayman this day in the beech woods this side of 


Groombridge.” 
“Dear lady,” said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked 


ee ee ee 


A DEPARTURE 399 


up startled, “you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we 
will begin at the end, if you please. Is it true you have robbed 
an highwayman?” 

“Tt is perfectly true,” she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, 
made heart-shape, from her dress. ‘There is the plunder,” and 
she held it out for inspection. 

“Then tell us the tale,” said Anthony. 

“Tt would be five of the clock,” said Mary, “‘as we came through 
Groombridge, and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my 
knaves ride on before with my woman; I came down into a dingle 
where there was a stream; and, to tell the truth, I had my head 
down and was a-nodding, when my horse stopped; and I looked 
up of a sudden and there was a man on a bay mare, with a mask 
to his mouth, a gay green suit, a brown beard turning grey, and 
this ruby brooch at his throat; and he had caught my bridle. I 
saw him start when I lifted my head, as if he were taken aback. 
I said nothing, but he led my horse off the road down among the 
trees with a deep little thicket where none could see us. As we 
went I was thinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the 
little red brooch before. 

“When we reached the little open space, I asked him what he 
wished with me. 

“Your purse, madam,’ said he. 

“ “My woman hath it,’ said I. 

“‘“Vour jewels then, madam,’ said he. 

“““My woman hath them,’ said I, ‘save this paste buckle in my 
hat, to which you are welcome.’ It was diamonds, you know; but 
I knew he would not know that. 

“What a mistake,’ I said, ‘to stop the mistress and let the 
maid go free!’ 

““Nay,’ he said, ‘I am glad of it; for at least I will have a 
dance with the mistress; and I could not with the maid.’ 

“Vou are welcome to that,’ I said, and I slipped off my horse, 
to humour him, and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for 
although many have red brooches, and many brown beards turn- 
ing grey, few have both together; but I said nothing. And there 
—will you believe it?—-we danced under the beech-trees like 
Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney is always 
prating of; or like two fools I would sooner say. Then when we 
had done, I made him a curtsey. 

‘“‘“Now you must help me up,’ said I, and he mounted me with- 
out a word, for he was a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of 


400 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


breath. And then what did the fool do but try to kiss me, and 
as he lifted his arm I snatched the brooch and put spur to my 
horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed at him, ‘Claude, 
you fool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself.’ And 
when I was near the road I looked back, and he still stood there 
all agape.” 

‘‘And what was his name?” asked Anthony. 

“Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four 
Claudes, so you need not try to guess.” 


When supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and 
down the south path of the garden between the yews, while the 
other two sat just outside the hall window on a seat placed 
on the tiled terrace that ran round the house. 

“How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary,” he 
said, ‘‘and counsel me of the matter we wrote about. Tell me 
what to do.” 

Mary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was 
rising out to the east in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly 
at her friend. 

“T hate to pain you,” she said, “but cannot you see that it is 
impossible? I may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given 
to our Saviour that there is no love of that sort left.” 

‘““Ah, how can you say that?” he cried; “the love of the Saviour 
does not hinder earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it.” 

“Ves,” said Mary gravely, “it is often so—but the love of the 
true spouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an 
earthly bridegroom.” 

Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two. 

“You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?” 

Mary bowed her head. ‘But I cannot be sure,” she added. 

“Then what shall I do?” he said again, almost piteously; and 
Mary could see even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant 
face was all broken up and quivering. She laid her hand gently 
on his arm, and her rings flashed. 

‘“You must be very patient,” she said, ‘‘very full of deference— 
and grave. You must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak 
slowly and reverently to her, but at no great length; be plain 
with her; do not look in her face, and do not show anxiety or 
despair or hope. You need not fear that your love will not be 
plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already.” 

“Why, I have not ” he began. 





A DEPARTURE 401 


“T know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only 
looked at you once during supper, and that was when your face 
was turned from her; she does not wish to look you in the eyes.” 

‘“‘Ah, she hates me,” he sighed. 

“Do not be foolish, ” said “Mary, “She honours you, and loves 
you, and is grieved for your grief; but I do not think she will 
marry you.” 

“‘And when shall I speak?” he asked. 

“You must wait; God will make the opportunity—in any case. 
You must not attempt to make it. That would terrify her.” 

“And you will speak for me.” 

Mary smiled at him. 

“Dear friend,” she said, “sometimes I think you do not know 
us at all. Do you not see that Isabel is greater than all that? 
What she knows, she knows. I could tell her nothing.” 


The days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises’ 
stay at Stanfield. Half-way through the month came the news 
of the Oxford executions. 

“Ah! listen to this,” cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one 
evening in the garden with a letter in his hand. ‘“‘ ‘Humphrey 
Prichard,’ ” he read, “ ‘made a good end. He protested he was 
condemned for the Catholic Faith; that he willingly died for it; 
that he was a Catholic. One of their ministers laughed at him, 
saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knew not what it was 
to be a Catholic. ‘I know very well,’ said Humphrey, ‘though I 
cannot say it in proper divinity language.’ There is the Religion 
for you!” went on Mr. Buxton; ‘all meet there, wise and simple 
alike. There is no difference; no scholarship is needed for faith. 
‘I know what it is,’ said Humphrey, ‘though I cannot explain 
it!’ ”? 

The news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt 
he had done so little to teach his flock now he was to leave them; 
but if he had only done something to keep alive the fire of faith, 
he had not lost his time; and so he went about his spiritual affairs 
with new heart, encouraging the wavering, whom he was to leave, 
warning the overconfident, urging the hesitating, and saying 
good-bye to them all. Isabel went with him sometimes; or some- 
times walked or rode with Mary, and was silent for the most part 
in public. The master of the house himself did his affairs, and 
carried a heavier heart each day. And at last the opportunity 
came which Mary had predicted. 


402 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


He had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to 
Tonbridge on some business with the priest there; and had 
dressed for supper immediately on coming in. 

As there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out 
to walk up and down the same yew-alley near the garden-house 
where he had walked with Mary. Anthony and Isabel had re- 
turned a little later from East Maskells, and they too had dressed 
early. Isabel threw a lace shawl over her head, and betook her- 
self too to the alley; and there she turned a corner and almost 
ran into her host. 

It was, as Mary had said, a God-made opportunity. Neither 
time nor place could have been improved. If externals were of 
any value to this courtship, all that could have helped was there. 
The setting of the picture was perfect; a tall yew-hedge ran down 
the northern side of the walk, cut, as Bacon recommended, not 
fantastically but ‘with some pretty pyramids”; a strip of turf 
separated it from the walk, giving a sense both of privacy and 
space; on the south side ran the flower-beds in the turf, with yews 
and cypresses planted here and there, and an oak paling beyond; 
to the east lay the “fair mount,” again recommended by the same 
authority, but not so high, and with but one ascent; to the west 
the path darkened under trees, and over all rose up against the 
sunset sky the tall grotesque towers and vanes of the garden-house. 
The flowers burned with that ember-like glow which may be seen 
on summer evenings, and poured out their scent; the air was 
sweet and cool, and white moths were beginning to poise and 
stir among the blossoms. The two actors on this scene too were 
not unworthy of it; his dark velvet and lace with the glimmer of 
diamonds here and there, and his delicate bearded clean-cut face, 
a little tanned, thrown into relief by the spotless crisp ruff beneath, 
and above all his air of strength and refinement and self-posses- 
sion—all combined to make him a formidable stormer of a girl’s 
heart. And as he looked on her—on her clear almost luminous 
face and great eyes, shrined in the drooping lace shawl, through 
which a jewel or two in her black hair glimmered, her upright 
slender figure in its dark sheath, and the hand, white and cool, 
that held her shawl together over her breast—he had a pang of 
hope and despair at once, at the sudden sense of need of this 
splendid creature of God to be one with him, and reign with 
him over these fair possessions; and of hopelessness at the thought 
that anything so perfect could be accomplished in this imperfect 
world. 


A DEPARTURE 403 


He turned immediately and walked beside her, and they both 
knew, in the silence that followed, that the crisis had come. 

““Mistress Isabel,” he said, still looking down as he spoke, and 
his voice sounded odd to her ears, “I wonder if you know what 
I would say to you.” 

There came no sound from her, but. the rustle of her dress. 

“But I must say it,’’ he went on, “follow what may. It is this. 
I love you dearly.” 

Her walk faltered beside him, and it seemed as if she would 
stand still. 

“A moment,” he said, and he lifted his white restrained face. 
“TI ask you to be patient with me. Perhaps I need not say that 
I have never said this to any woman before; but more, I have 
never even thought it. I do not know how to speak, nor what 
I should say; beyond this, that since I first met you at the 
door across there, a year ago, you have taught me ever since 
what love means; and now I am come to you, as to my dear 
mistress, with my lesson learnt.” 

They were standing together now; he was still turned a little 
away from her, and dared not lift his eyes to her face again. 
Then of a sudden he felt her hand on his arm for a moment, and 
he looked up, and saw her eyes all swimming with sorrow. 

“Dear friend,” she said quite simply, “it is impossible—Ah! 
what can I say?” 

‘Give me a moment more,” he said; and they walked on slowly. 
“T know what presumption this is; but I will not spin phrases 
about that. Nor do I ask what is impossible; but I will only ask 
leave to teach you in my turn what love means.” 

“Oh! that is the hardest of all to say,” she said, “but I know 
already.” 

He did not quite understand, and glanced at her a moment. 

“TI once loved too,” she whispered. He drew a sharp breath. 

“Forgive me,” he said, “I forced that from you.” 

‘You are never anything but courteous and kind,” she said, 
“and that makes this harder than all.” 

They walked in silence half a dozen steps. 

“Have I distressed you?” he asked, glancing at her again. 

Then she looked full in his face, and her eyes were overflowing. 

“T am grieved for your sorrow,” she said, “and at my own 
unworthiness, you know that?” 

“T know that you are now and always will be my dear mistress 
and queen.” 


404 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


His voice broke altogether as he ended, and he bent and took 
her hand delicately in his own, as if it were royal, and kissed 
it. Then she gave a great sob and slipped away through the 
opening in the clipped hedge; and he was left alone with the 
dusk and his sorrow. 


A week later Anthony and Isabel were saying good-bye to 
him in the early summer morning: the pack-horses had started 
on before, and there were just the two saddle-horses at the low 
oak door, with the servants’ behind. When Mr. Buxton had put 
Isabel into the saddle, he held her hand for a moment; Anthony 
was mounting behind. 

“Mistress Isabel,” he whispered; ‘forgive me; but I find I 
cannot take your answer; you will remember that.” 

She shook her head without speaking, but dared not even look 
into his eyes; though she turned her head as she rode out of 
the gates for a last look at the peaked gables and low windows 
of the house where she had been so happy. There was still 
the dark figure motionless against the pale oak door. 

“Oh, Anthony!” she whispered brokenly, “our Lord asks very 
much.” 


ee 


CHAPTER VII 
NORTHERN RELIGION 


Tue Northern counties were distinguished among all in England 
for their loyalty to the old Faith; and this was owing, no doubt, 
to the characters of both the country and the inhabitants;—it 
was difficult tor the officers of justice to penetrate to the high 
moorland and deep ravines, and yet more difficult to prevail 
with the persons who lived there. Twenty-two years before 
the famous Lancashire League had been formed, under the en- 
couragement of Dr. Allen, afterwards the Cardinal, whose mem- 
bers pledged themselves to determined recusancy; with the result 
that here and there church-doors were closed, and the Book of 
Common Prayer utterly refused. Owing partly to Bishop Down- 
man’s laxity towards the recusants, the principles of the League 
had retained their hold throughout the county, ever since ’68, 
when ten obstinate Lancastrians had been haled before the Coun- 
cil, of whom one, the famous Sir John Southworth himself, suf- 
fered imprisonment more than once. 

Anthony and Isabel then found their life in the North very 
different to that which they had been living at Stanfield. Near 
the towns, of course, precaution was as necessary as anywhere 
else in England, but once they had passed up on to the higher 
moorlands they were able to throw off all anxiety, as much as 
if the penal laws of England were not in force there. 

It was pleasant, too, to go, as they did, from great house to 
great house, and find the old pre-Reformation life of England 
in full vigour; the whole family present at mass so often as it 
was said, desirous of the sacraments, and thankful for the oppor- 
tunities of grace that the arrival of the priest afforded. Isabel 
would often stay at such houses a week or two together, while 
Anthony made rounds into the valleys and to the moorland vil- 
lages round about; and then the two would travel on together 
with their servants to the next village. Anthony’s ecclesiastical 
outfit was very simple. Among Isabel’s dresses lay a brocade 
vestment that might easily pass notice if the luggage was searched; 
and Anthony carried in his own luggage a little altar-stone, a 


405 


406 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


case with the holy oils, a tiny chalice and paten, singing-cakes, 
and a thin vellum-bound Missal and Ritual in one volume, con- 
taining the order of mass, a few votive masses, and the usual 
benedictions for holy-water, rue and the like, and the occasional 
offices. 

In this manner they first visited many of the famous old 
Lancashire houses, some of which still stand, Borwick Hall, 
Hall-i’-the-Wood, Lydiate Hall, Thurnham, Blainscow, where 
Campion had once been so nearly taken, and others, all of which 
were provided with secret hiding-places for the escape of the 
priest, should a sudden alarm be raised. In none of them, how- 
ever, did he find the same elaboration of device as at Stanfield 
Place. 

First, however, they went to Speke Hall, the home of Mr. 
Norreys, on the banks of the Mersey, a beautiful house of magpie 
architecture, and furnished with a remarkable underground pas- 
sage to the shore of the Mersey, the scene of Richard Brittain’s 
escape. 

Here they received a very warm welcome. 

“Tt is as I wrote to Mr. Buxton,” said his host on the evening 
of their arrival, ‘in many places in this country any religion 
other than the Catholic is unknown. The belief of the Protestant 
is as strange as that of the Turk, both utterly detested. I was 
in Cumberland a few months back; there in more than one village 
the old worship goes on as it has done since Christianity first 
came to this island. But I hope you will go up there, now that 
you have come so far. You would do a great work for Christ 
his Church.” 

He told him, too, a number of stories of the zeal and constancy 
shown on behalf of the Religion; of small squires who were 
completely ruined by the fines laid upon them; of old halls that 
were falling to pieces through the ruin brought upon their staunch 
owners; and above all of the priests that Lancashire had added 
to the roll of the martyrs—Anderton, Marsden, and Thompson 
among others—and of the joy shown when the glorious news of 
their victory over death reached the place where they had been 
born or where they had ministered. 

“At Preston, he said, ‘“‘when the news of Mr. Greenaway’s 
death reached them, they tolled the bells for sorrow. But his 
old mother ran from her house to the street when they had 
broken the news to her: ‘Peal them, peal them!’ she cried, ‘for 
I have borne a martyr to God.’ ” 


NORTHERN RELIGION 407 


He talked, too, of Campion, of his sermons on “The King 
who went a journey,” and the “Hail, Mary’; and told him of 
the escape at Blainscow Hall, where the servant-girl, seeing the 
pursuivants at hand, pushed the Jesuit, with quick wit and cour- 
age, into the duck-pond, so that he came out disguised indeed— 
in green mud—and was mocked at by the very officers as a 
clumsy suitor of maidens. 

Anthony’s heart warmed within him as he sat and listened to 
these tales of patience and gallantry. 

“TY would lay down my life to serve such folk,” he said; and 
Isabel looked with deep-kindled eyes from the one to the other. 

They did not stay more than a day or two. at Speke Hall, 
for, as Mr. Norreys said, the necessaries of salvation were to be 
had there already; but they moved on almost at once north- 
wards, always arriving at some central point for Saturdays and 
Sundays, so that the Catholics round could come in for shrift 
and housel. In this manner they passed up through Lancashire, 
and pushed still northwards, hearing that a priest was sorely 
needed, through the corner of Westmoreland, up the Lake coun- 
try, through into Cumberland itself. At Kendal, where they 
stayed two nights, Anthony received a message that determined 
him, after consultation with Isabel, to push on as far as Skiddaw, 
and to make that the extreme limit of his journey. He sent the 
messenger, a wild-looking North-countryman, back with a verbal 
answer to that effect, and named a date when they would arrive. 

It was already dark, two weeks later, when they arrived at the 
point where the guide was to meet them, as they had lost their 
way more than once already. Here were a couple of men with 
torches, waiting for them behind a rock, who had come down 
from the village, a mile farther on, to bring them up the difficult 
stony path that was the only means of access to it. The track 
went up a ravine, with a rock-wall rising on their left, on which 
the light of the torches shone, and tumbled ground, covered with 
heather, falling rapidly away on their right down to a gulf of 
darkness whence they could hear the sound of the torrent far 
below; the path was uneven, with great stones here and there, 
and sharp corners in it, and as they went it was all they could 
do to keep their tired horses from stumbling, for a slip would 
have been dangerous under the circumstances. The men who 
led them said little, as it was impossible for a horse and a man 
to walk abreast, but Anthony was astonished to see again and 
again, as they turned a corner, another man with a torch and 


408 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


some weapon, a pike, or a sword, start up and salute him, or 
sometimes a group, with barefooted boys, and then attach them- 
selves to the procession either before or behind; until in a short 
while there was an escort of some thirty or forty accompanying 
the cavalcade. At last, as they turned a corner, the lighted win- 
dows of a belfry showed against the dark moor beyond, and in 
a moment more, as if there were a watcher set there to look 
out for the torches, a peal of five bells clashed out from the 
tower; then, as they rose yet higher, the path took a sudden 
turn and a dip between two towering rocks, and the whole vil- 
lage lay beneath them, with lights in every window to welcome 
the priest, the first that they had seen for eight months, when 
the old Marian rector, the elder brother of the squire, had died. 

It was now late, so Anthony and Isabel were conducted imme- 
diately to the Hall, an old house immediately adjoining the 
churchyard; and here, too, the windows were blazing with wel- 
come, and the tall squire, Mr. Brian, with his wife and children 
behind, was standing before the bright hall-door at the top of 
the steps. The men and boys that had brought them so far, 
and were standing in the little court with their torches uplifted, 
now threw themselves on their knees to receive the priest’s 
blessing, before they went home; and Anthony blessed them and 
thanked them, and went indoors with his sister, strangely moved 
and uplifted. 


The two following days were full of hard work and delight for 
Anthony. He was to say mass at half-past six next morning, 
and came out of the house a little after six o’clock; the sun was 
just rising to his right over a shoulder of Skiddaw, which dom- 
inated the eastern horizon; and all round him, stretched against 
the sky in all directions, were the high purple moors in the strange 
dawn-light. Immediately in front of him, not thirty yards away, 
stood the church, with its tower, two aisles, and a chapel on a 
little promontory of rock which jutted out over the bed of the 
torrent along which he had climbed the night before; and to his 
left lay the straggling street of the village. All was perfectly 
still except for the dash of the stream over the rocks; but from 
one or two houses a thin skein of smoke was rising straight into 
the air. Anthony stood rapt in delight, and drew long breaths of 
the cool morning air, laden with freshness and fragrant with the 
mellow scent of the heather and the autumnal smells. 

He was completely taken by surprise when he entered the 


NORTHERN RELIGION 409 


church, for, for the first time since he could remember, he saw 
an English church in its true glory. It had been built for a 
priory-church of Holm-Cultram, but for some reason had never 
been used as that, and had become simply the parish church of 
the village. Across the centre and the northern aisle ran an 
elaborate screen, painted in rich colours, and the southern chapel, 
which ran eastwards of the porch, was separated in a similar 
way from the rest of the church. Over the central screen was 
the Great Rood, with its attendant figures, exquisitely carved and 
painted; in every direction, as Anthony looked beyond the screens, 
gleamed rich windows, with figures and armorial bearings; here 
and there tattered banners hung on the walls; St. Christopher 
stood on the north wall opposite the door, to guard from violence 
all who looked upon him day by day; a little painting of the 
Baptist hung on a pillar over against the font, and a Vernacle by 
the pulpit; and all round the walls hung little pictures, that the 
poor and unlearned might read the story of redemption there. 
But the chief glory of all was the solemn high altar, with its 
riddells surmounted by taper-bearing gilded angels, with its 
brocade cloth, and its painted halpas behind; and above it, 
before the rich window which smouldered against the dawn, 
hung the awful pyx, covered by the white silk cloth, but empty; 
waiting for the priest to come and bid the Shechinah of the Lord 
to brood there again over this gorgeous throne beneath, against 
the brilliant halo of the painted glass behind. 

Anthony knelt a moment and thanked God for bringing him 
here, and then pased up into the north aisle, where the image 
of the Mother of God presided, as she had done for three hun- 
dred years, over her little altar against the wall. Anthony said 
his preparation and vested at the altar; and was astonished to 
find at least thirty people to hear mass: none, of course, made 
their communion, but Anthony, when he had ended, placed the 
Body of the Lord once more in the hanging pyx and lit the 
lamp before it. 

Then all day he sat in the north chapel, with the dash and 
loud thunder of the mountain stream entering through the opened 
panes of the east window, and the stained sunlight, in gorgeous 
colours, creeping across the red tiles at his feet, glowing and 
fading as the clouds moved over the sun, while the people came 
and were shriven; with the exception of an hour in the middle 
of the day and half an hour for supper in the evening, he was 
incessantly occupied until nine o’clock at night. From the 


410 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


upland dales all round they streamed in, at news of the priest, 
and those who had come from far and were fasting he communi- 
cated at once from the Reserved Sacrament. At last, tired out, 
but intensely happy, he went back to the Hall. 

But the next morning was yet more startling. Mass was at 
eight o’clock, and by the time Anthony entered the church he 
found a congregation of nearly two hundred souls; the village 
itself did not number above seventy, but many came in from 
the country round, and some had stayed all night in the church- 
porch. Then, too, he heard the North-country singing in the old 
way; all the mass music was sung in three parts, except the 
unchanging melody of the creed, which, like the tremendous and 
unchanging words themselves, at one time had united the whole 
of England; but what stirred Anthony more than all were the 
ancient hymns sung here and there during the service, some in 
Latin, which a few picked voices rendered, and some in English, 
to the old lilting tunes which were as much the growth of the 
North-country as the heather itself. The “Ave Verum Corpus” 
was sung after the Elevation, and Anthony felt that his heart 
would break for very joy; as he bent before the Body of his 
Lord, and the voices behind him rose and exulted up the aisles, 
the women’s and children’s voices soaring passionately up in the 
melody, the men’s mellow voices establishing, as it seemed, these 
ecstatic pinnacles of song on mighty and immovable foundations. 

Vespers were said at three o’clock, after baptisms and more 
confessions; and Anthony was astonished at the number of folk 
who could answer the priest. After vespers he made a short 
sermon, and told the people something of what he had seen in 
the South, of the martyrdoms at Tyburn, and of the constancy 
of the confessors. 

“ “Be thou faithful unto death,’ ” he said. ‘‘So our Saviour bids 
us, and He gives us a promise too; ‘I will give thee a crown of 
life.’ Beloved, some day the tide of heresy will creep up these 
valleys too; and it will bear many things with it, the scaffold and 
the gallows and the knife maybe. And then our Lord will see 
which are His; then will be time that grace will triumph—that 
those who use the sacraments with devotion; that have been care- 
ful and penitent with their sins, that have hungered for the Bread 
of Life—the Lord shall stand by them and save them, as He stood 
by Mr. Sherwin on the rack, and Father Campion on the scaffold, 
and Mistress Ward and many more, of whom I have not had time 
to tell you. He who bids us be faithful, Himself will be faithful; 


NORTHERN RELIGION 4It 


and He who wore the crown of thorns will bestow upon us the 
crown of life.” 
Then they sang a hymn to our Lady: 


“Hail be thou, Mary, the mother of Christ,” 


and the old swaying tune rocked like a cradle, and the people 
looked up towards their Mother’s altar as they sang—their Mother 
who had ruled them so sweetly and so long—and entreated her 
in their hearts, who stood by her Son’s Cross, to stand by theirs 
too should God ever call them to die upon one. 

The next day Mr. Brian took Anthony a long walk as soon as 
dinner was over, across the moors towards the north side of 
Skiddaw. Anthony found the old man a delightful and garrulous 
companion, full of tales of the countryside, historical, religious, 
naturalistic, and supernatural. As they stood on a little emi- 
nence and looked back to where the church-tower pricked out 
of the deep cracks in the moors where it stood, he told him the 
tale of the coming of the pursuivants. 

“They first troubled us in ’72,” he said; ‘‘they had not thought 
it worth while before to disturb themselves for one old man like 
my brother, who was like to die soon; but in April of that year 
they first sent up their men. But it was only a pair of pur- 
suivants, for they knew nothing of the people; they came up, 
the poor men, to take my brother down to Cockermouth to 
answer on his religion to some bench of ministers that sat there. 
Well, they met him, in his cassock and square cap, coming out 
of the church, where he had just replaced the Most Holy Sac- 
rament after giving communion to a dying body. ‘Heh! are you 
the minister?’ say they. 

“‘ ‘Heh! I am the priest, if that is what you mean,’ he answers 
back. (He was a large man, like myself, was my brother.) 

““ “Well, come, old man,’ say they, ‘we must help you down to 
Cockermouth.’ 

‘“‘Well, a few words passed; and the end was that he called 
out to Tim, who lived just against the church; and told them 
what was forward. 

“Well, the pursuivants got back to Cockermouth with their 
lives, but not much else; and reported to the magistrates that 
the wild Irish themselves were little piminy maids compared 
to the folk they had visited that day. 

“So there was a great to-do, and a deal of talk; and in the 


412 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


next month they sent up thirty pikemen with an officer and a 
dozen pursuivants, and all to take one old priest and his brother. 
I had been in Kendal in April when they first came—but they 
put it all down to me. 

“Well, we were ready for them this time; the bells had been 
ringing to call in the folk since six of the clock in the morning, 
and by dinner-time, when the soldiers were expected, there was 
a matter of two hundred men, I should say, some with scythes 
and sickles, and some with staves or shepherds’ crooks; the chil- 
dren had been sent down sooner to stone the men all the way 
up the path; and by the. time that they had reached the church- 
yard gate there was not a man of them but had a cut or a bruise 
upon him. Then, when they turned the corner, black with wrath, 
there were the lads gathered about the church-porch each with 
his weapon, and each white and silent, waiting for what should 
fall. 

“Now you wonder where we were. We were in the church, 
my brother and I; for our people had put us there against our 
will, to keep us safe, they said. Eh! but I was wroth when 
Olroyd and the rest pushed me through the door. However, 
there we were, locked in; I was up in one window, and my brother 
was in the belfry as I thought, each trying to see what was for- 
ward. I saw the two crowds of them, silent and wrathful, with 
not twenty yards between them, and a few stones still sailing 
among the soldiers now and again; the pikes were being set in 
array, and our lads were opening out to let the scythes have free 
play, when on a sudden I heard the tinkle of a bell round the out- 
side of the tower, and I climbed down from my place, and up again 
to one of the west windows; there was a fearsome hush outside 
now, and I could see some of the soldiers in front were uneasy; 
they had their eyes off the lads and round the side of the tower. 
And then I saw little Dickie Olroyd in his surplice ringing a 
bell and bearing a candle, and behind him came my brother, 
in a purple cope I had never set eyes on before, with his square 
cap and a great book, and his eyes shining out of his head, and 
his lips opening and mouthing out Latin; and then he stopped, 
laid the book reverently on a tomb-stone, lifted both hands, and 
brought them down with the fingers out, and his eyes larger 
than ever. I could see the soldiers were ready to break and 
scatter, for some were Catholics no doubt, and many more feared 
the priest; and then on a sudden my brother caught the candle 
out of Dickie’s hand, blew it out with a great puff, while Dickie 


NORTHERN RELIGION 413 


rattled upon the bell, and then he dashed the smoking candle 
among the soldiers. The soldiers broke and fled like hares, out 
of the churchyard, down the street and down the path to Cocker- 
mouth; the officer tried to stay them, but ’twas no use; the fear 
of the Church was upon them, and her Grace herself could not 
have prevailed with them. Well, when they let us out, the lads 
were all a-trembling too; for my brother’s face, they said, was 
like the destroying angel; and I was somewhat queer myself, 
and I was astonished, too; for he was kind-hearted, was my 
, brother, and would not hurt a fly’s body; much less damn his 
,soul; and, after all, the poor soldiers were not to blame; and 
‘’twas a queer cursing, I thought too, to be done like that; but 
maybe ’twas a new papal method. I went round to the north 
chapel, and there he was taking off his cope. 

““ ‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘how did I do it?’ 

““Do it?’ I said; ‘do it? Why, you’ve damned those poor 
lads’ souls eternally. The hand of the Lord was with you,’ I 
said. 

‘““‘Damned them?’ said he; ‘nonsense! ’Twas only your old 
herbal that I read at them; and the cope too, ’twas inside out.’ ” 


Then the old man told Anthony other stories of his earlier life, 
how he had been educated at the university and been at Court 
in King Henry’s reign and Queen Mary’s, but that he had lost 
heart at Elizabeth’s accession, and retired to his hills, where he 
could serve God according to his conscience, and study God’s 
works too, for he was a keen naturalist. He told Anthony many 
stories about the deer, and the herds of wild white hornless cattle 
that were now practically extinct on the hills, and of a curious 
breed of four-horned sheep, skulls of all of which species hung 
in his hall, and of the odd drinking-horns that Anthony had 
admired the day before. There was one especially that he talked 
much of, a buffalo horn on three silver feet fashioned like the 
legs of an armed man; round the center was a filleting inscribed, 
“Oui pugnat contra tres perdet duos,’ and there was a cross 
patée on the horn, and two other inscriptions, “Nolzte extollere 
cornu in altu’”’ and “Qui bibat me adhuc siti’? Mr. Brian told 
him it had been brought from Italy by his grandfather. 

They put up a quantity of grouse and several hares as they 
walked across the moor; one of the hares, which had a curious 
patch of white between his ears like a little night-cap, startled 
Mr. Brian so much that he exclaimed aloud, crossed himself, 


414 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


and stood, a little pale, watching the hare’s head as it bobbed 
and swerved among the heather. 

“T like it not,” he said to Anthony, who inquired what was 
the matter. ‘Satan hath appeared under some such form to many 
in history. Joachimus Camerarius, who wrote de natura demo- 
num, tells, I think, a story of a hare followed by a fox that ran 
across the path of a young man who was riding on a horse, and 
who started in pursuit. Up and down hills and dales they went, 
and soon the fox was no longer there, and the hare grew larger 
and blacker as it went; and the young man presently saw that 
he was in a country that he knew not; it was all barren and 
desolate round him, and the sky grew dark. Then he spurred his 
horse more furiously, and he drew nearer and nearer to the great 
hare that now skipped along like a stag before him; and then, 
as he put out his hand to cut the hare down, the creature sprang 
into the air and vanished, and the horse fell dead; and the man 
was found in his own meadow by his friends, in a swound, with 
his horse dead beside him, and trampled marks round and round 
the field, and the pug-marks of what seemed like a great tiger 
beside him, where the beast had sprung into the air.” 

When Mr. Brian found that Anthony was interested in such 
stories, he told him plenty of them; especially tales that seemed 
to join in a strange unity of life, demons, beasts and men. It 
was partly, no doubt, his studies as a naturalist that led him 
to insist upon points that united rather than divided the orders 
of creation; and he told him stories first from such writers 
as Michael Verdunus and Petrus Burgottus, who relate among 
other marvels how there are ointments by the use of which shep- 
herds have been known to change themselves into wolves and 
tear the sheep that they should have protected; and he quoted 
to him St. Augustine’s own testimony, to the belief that in Italy 
certain women were able to change themselves into heifers through 
the power of witchcraft. Finally, he told him one or two tales 
of his own experience. 

“In the year ’63,” he said, “‘before my marriage, I was living 
alone in the Hall; I was a young man, and did my best to fear 
nought but deadly sin. I was coming back late from Threlkeld, 
round the south of Skiddaw that you see over there; and was 
going with a lantern, for it would be ten o’clock at night, and 
the time of the year was autumn. I was still a mile or two from 
the house, and was saying my beads as I came, for I hold that 
is a great protection; when I heard a strange whistling noise, with 


NORTHERN RELIGION 41s 


a murmur in it, high up overhead in the night. ‘It is the birds 
going south,’ I said to myself, for you know that great flocks 
fly by night when the cold begins to set in; but the sound grew 
louder and more distinct, and at last I could hear the sound as 
of words gabbled in a foreign tongue; and I knew they were 
no birds, though maybe they had wings like them. But I knew 
that a Christened soul in grace has nought to fear from hell; 
so I crossed myself and said my beads, and kept my eyes on the 
ground, and presently I saw my lights burning in the house, and 
heard the roar of the stream, and the gabbling above me ceased, 
as the sound of the running water began. But that night I 
awoke again and again; and the night seemed hot and close 
each time, as if a storm was near, but there was no thunder. 
Each time I heard the roar of the stream below the house, and 
no more. At last, towards the morning, I set my window wide 
that looks towards the stream, and leaned out; and there beneath 
me, crowded against the wall of the house, as I could see in 
the growing light, was a great flock of sheep, with all their heads 
together towards the house, as close as a score of dogs could 
pack them, and they were all still as death, and their backs 
were dripping wet; for they had come down the hills and swum 
the stream, in order to be near a Christened man and away from 
what was abroad that night. 

“My shepherds told me the same that day, that everywhere 
the sheep had come down to the houses, as if terrified near to 
death; and at Keswick, whither I went the next market-day, they 
told me the same tale, and that two men had each found a sheep 
that could not travel; one had a broken leg, and the other had 
been cast; but neither had another mark or wound or any 
disease upon him, but that both were lying dead upon Skiddaw; 
and the look in the dead eyes, they said, was fit to make a man 
forget his manhood.” 

Anthony found the old man the most interesting companion 
possible, and he persuaded him to accompany him on several of 
the expeditions that he had to make to the hamlets and outlying 
cottages round, in his spiritual ministrations; and both he and 
Isabel were sincerely sorry when two Sundays had passed away, 
and they had to begin to move south again in their journeyings. 


And so the autumn passed and winter began, and Anthony was 
slowly moving down again, supplying the place of priests who 
had fallen sick or had died, visiting many almost inaccessible 


416 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


hamlets, and everywhere encouraging the waverers and seeking 
the wanderers, and rejoicing over the courageous, and bringing 
opportunities of grace to many who longed for them. He met 
many other well-known priests from time to time, and took 
counsel with them, but did not have time to become very intimate 
with any of them, so great were the demands upon his services. 
In this manner he met John Colleton, the canonist, who had 
returned from his banishment in 787, but found him a little dull 
and melancholy, though his devotion was beyond praise. He 
met, too, the Jesuit Fathers Edward Oldcorne and Richard Holtby, 
the former of whom had lately come from Hindlip. 

He spent Christmas near Cartmel-in-Furness, and after the 
new year had opened, crossed the Ken once more near Beetham, 
and began to return slowly down the coast. Everywhere he was 
deeply touched by the devotion of the people, who, in spite of 
long months without a priest, had yet clung to the observance 
of their religion so far as was possible, and now welcomed him 
like an angel of God; and he had the great happiness too of 
reconciling some who, yielding to loneliness and pressure, had 
conformed to the Establishment. In these latter cases he was 
almost startled by the depth of Catholic convictions that had 
survived. 

“T never believed it, father,” said a young squire to him, near 
Garstang. “I knew that it was but a human invention, and not 
the Gospel that my fathers held, and that Christ our Saviour 
brought on earth; but I lost heart, for that no priest came near 
us, and I had not had the sacraments for nearly two years; and 
I thought that it were better to have some religion than none 
at all, so at last I went to church. But there is no need to talk 
to me, father, now I have made my confession, for I know with 
my whole soul that the Catholic Religion is the true one—and 
I have known it all the while, and I thank God and his Blessed 
Mother, and you, father, too, for helping me to say so again, 
and to come back to grace.” 

At last, at the beginning of March, Anthony and Isabel found 
themselves back again at Speke Hall, warmly welcomed by Mr. 
Norreys. 

“You have done a good work for the Church, Mr. Capell,” 
said his host, “and God will reward you and thank you for it 
Himself, for we cannot.” 

“And I thank God,” said Anthony, “for the encouragement to 
faith that the sight of the faithful North has given to me; and 


NORTHERN RELIGION 417 


pray Him that I may carry something of her spirit back with 
me to the South.” 

There were letters waiting for him at Speke Hall, one from 
Mr. Buxton, urging them to come back, at least for the present, 
to Stanfield "Place, so soon as the winter work in the North was 
over; and another from the Rector of the College at Douai to 
the same effect. There was also one more, written from a little 
parish in Kent, from a Catholic lady, who was altogether a 
stranger to him, but who plainly knew all about him, entreating 
him to call at her house when he was in the South again; her 
husband, she said, had met him once at Stanfield and had been 
strongly attracted by him to the Catholic Church, and she be- 
lieved that if Anthony would but pay them a visit her husband’s 
conversion would be brought about. Anthony could not remem- 
ber the man’s name, but Isabel thought that she did remember 
some such person at a small private conference that Anthony 
had given in Mr. Buxton’s house, for the benefit of Catholics 
and those who were being drawn towards the Religion. 

The lady, too, gave him instructions as to how he should come 
from London to her house, recommending him to cross the Thames 
at a certain spot that she described near Greenhithe, and to 
come on southwards along a route that she marked for him, to 
the parish of Stanstead, where she lived. This, then, was soon 
arranged, and after letters had been sent off announcing An- 
thony’s movements, he left Speke Hall with Isabel, about a fort- 
night later. 


CHAPTER VIII 
IN STANSTEAD WOODS 


Own the first day of June, Anthony and Isabel, with their three 
armed servants and the French maid behind them, were riding 
down through Thurrock to the north bank of the Thames op- 
posite Greenhithe. As they went Anthony pulled out and studied 
the letter and the little map that Mrs. Kirke had sent to guide 
them. 

“On the right-hand side,” she wrote, “when you come to the 
ferry, stands a little inn, the ‘Sloop,’ among trees, with a yard 
behind it. Mr. Bender, the host, is one of us; and he will get 
your horses on board, and do all things to forward you without 
attracting attention. Give him some sign that he may know 
you for a Catholic, and when you are alone with him tell him 
where you are bound.” 

There were one or two houses standing near the bank, as they 
rode down the lane that led to the river, but they had little 
difficulty in identifying the “Sloop,” and presently they rode into 
the yard, and, leaving their horses with the servants, stepped 
round into the little smoky front room of the inn. 

A man, dressed somewhat like a sailor, was sitting behind a 
table, who looked up with a dull kind of expectancy and whom 
Anthony took as the host; and, in order to identify him and show 
who he himself was, he took up a little cake of bread that was 
lying on a platter on the table, and broke it as if he would eat. 
This was one of Father Persons’ devices, and was used among 
Catholics to signify their religion when they were with strangers, 
since it was an action that could rouse no suspicion among others. 
The man looked in an unintelligent way at Anthony, who turned 
away and rapped upon the door, and as a large heavily-built man 
came out, broke it again, and put a piece into his mouth. The 
man lifted his eyebrows slightly, and just smiled, and Anthony 
knew he had found his friend. 

“Come this way, sir,” he said, “and your good lady, too.” 

They followed him into the inner room of the house, a kind 
of little kitchen, with a fire burning and a pot over it, and one 

418 


IN STANSTEAD WOODS 419 


or two barrels of drink against the wall. A woman was stirring 
the pot, for it was near dinner-time, and turned round as the 
strangers came in. It was plainly an inn that was of the poorest 
kind, and that was used almost entirely by watermen or by 
travellers who were on their way to cross the ferry. 

“The less said the better,” said the man, when he had shut 
the door. “How can I serve you, sir?” 

“We wish to take our horses and ourselves across to Green- 
hithe,” said Anthony, “‘and Mrs. Kirke, to whom we are going, 
bade us make ourselves known to you.” 

The man nodded and smiled. 

“Yes, sir, that can be managed directly. The ferry is at the 
other bank now, sir; and I will call it across. Shall we say 
in half an hour, sir; and, meanwhile, will you and your lady 
take something?” 

Anthony accepted gladly, as the time was getting on, and 
ordered dinner for the servants too, in the outer room. As the 
landlord was going to the door, he stopped him. 

“Who is that man in the other roome” he asked. 

The landlord gave a glance at the door, and came back towards. 
Anthony. 

“To tell the truth, sir, I don’t know. He is a sailor by appear- 
ance, and he knows the talk; but none of the watermen know 
him; and he seems to do nothing. However, sir, there’s no harm 
in him that I can see.” 

Anthony told him that he had broken the bread before him, 
thinking he was the landlord. The real landlord smiled broadly. 

“Thank God, I am somewhat more of a man than that,’’ for 
the sailor was lean and sun-dried. Then once more Mr. Bender 
went to the door to call the servants in. 

“Why, the man’s gone,” he said, and disappeared. Then they 
heard his voice again. ‘But he’s left his groat behind him for 
his drink, so all’s well’’; and presently his voice was heard singing 
as he got the table ready for the servants. 

In a little more than half an hour the party and the horses 
were safely on the broad barge-like ferry, and Mr. Bender was 
bowing on the bank and wishing them a prosperous journey, as 
they began to move out on to the wide river towards the chalk 
cliffs and red roofs of Greenhithe that nestled among the mass 
of trees on the opposite bank. In less than ten minutes they were 
at the pier, and after a little struggle to get the horses to land, 
they were mounted and riding up the straight little street that 


420 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


led up to the higher ground. Just before they turned the corner 
they heard far away across the river the horn blown to summon 
the ferry-boat once more. 


There were two routes from Greenhithe to Stanstead, the one 
to the right through Longfield and Ash, the other to the left 
through Southfleet and Nursted. There was very little to choose 
between them as regards distance, and Mrs. Kirke had drawn 


a careful sketch-map with a few notes as to the characteristics. 


of each route. There were besides, particularly through the thick 
woods about Stanstead itself, innumerable cross-paths intersect- 
ing one another in all directions. The travellers had decided 
at the inn to take the road through Longfield, since, in spite of 
other disadvantages, it was the less frequented of the two, and 
they were anxious above all things to avoid attention. Their 
horses were tired; and as they had plenty of time before them 
they proposed to go at a foot’s-pace all the way, and to take 
between two and three hours to cover the nine or ten miles 
between Greenhithe and Stanstead. 

It was a hot afternoon as they passed through Fawkham, and 
it was delightful to pass from the white road in under the thick 
arching trees just beyond the village. There everything was 
cool shadow, the insects sang in the air about them, an early 
rabbit or two cantered across the road and disappeared into the 
thick undergrowth; once the song of the birds about them suddenly 
ceased, and through an opening in the green rustling vault 
overhead they saw a cruel shape with motionless wings glide 
steadily across. 

They did not talk much, but let the reins lie loose; and en- 
joyed the cool shadow and the green lights and the fragrant 
mellow scents of the woods about them; while their horses 
slouched along on the turf, switching their tails and even stop- 
ping sometimes for a second in a kind of desperate greediness to 
snatch a green juicy mouthful at the side. 

Isabel was thinking of Stanfield, and wondering how the situa- 
tion would adjust itself; Mary Corbet would be there, she knew, 
to meet them; and it was a comfort to think she could consult 
her; but what, she asked herself, would be her relations with the 
master of the house? 

Suddenly Anthony’s horse stepped off the turf on the opposite 
side of the road and began to come towards her, and she moved 
her beast a little to let him come on the turf beside her. 


IN STANSTEAD WOODS 421 


“Isabel,” said Anthony, ‘‘tell me if you hear anything.” 

She looked at him, suddenly startled. 

“No, no,” he said, “there is nothing to fear; it is probably 
my fancy; but listen and tell me.” 

She listened intently. There was the creaking of her own 
saddle, the soft footfalls of the horses, the hum of the summer 
woods, and the sound of the servants’ horses behind. 

“No,” she said, “there is nothing beyond if 

“There!” he said suddenly; ‘now do you hear it?” 

Then she heard plainly the sound either of a man running, or 
of a horse walking somewhere behind them. 

“Yes,” she said, “‘I hear something; but what of it?” 

“It is the third time I have heard it,” he said: “once in the 
woods behind Longfield, and once just before the little village 
with the steepled church.” 

The sound had ceased again. 

“Tt is some one who has come nearly all the way from Green- 
hithe behind us. Perhaps they are not following—but again i 

“They?” she said; “there is only one.” 

“There are three,” he answered; ‘‘at least; the other two are 
on the turf at the side—but just before the village I heard all 
three of them—or rather certainly more than two—when they 
were between those two walls where there was no turf.” 

Isabel was starting at him with great frightened eyes. He 
smiled back at her tranquilly. 

‘“‘Ah, Isabel!” he said, “there is nothing really to fear, in 
any case.” 

“What shall you do?” she asked, making a great effort to 
control herself. 

“T think we must find out first of ali whether they are after 
us. We must certainly not ride straight to the Manor Lodge 
if it is so.” 

Then he explained his plan. 

“See here,” he said, holding the map before her as he rode, 
“we shall come to Fawkham Green in five minutes. Then our 
proper road leads straight on to Ash, but we will take the right 
instead, towards Eynsford. Meanwhile, I will leave Robert here, 
hidden by the side of the road, to see who these men are, and 
what they look like; and we will ride slowly. When they have 
passed, he will come out and take the road we should have taken, 
and he then will turn off to the right too before he reaches Ash; 
and by trotting he will easily come up with us at this corner,” and 








422 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


he pointed to it on the map—‘‘and so he will tell us what 
kind of men they are; and they will never know that they have 
been spied upon; for, by this plan, he will not have to pass 
them. Is that a good plot?” and he smiled at her. 

Isabel assented, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. She could 
hardly bring her thoughts to a focus, for the fears that had 
hovered about her ever since they had left Lancashire and come 
down to the treacherous South, had now darted upon her, tearing 
her heart with terror and blinding her eyes, and bewildering her 
with the beating of the wings. 

Anthony quietly called’up Robert, and explained the plan. He 
was a lad of a Catholic family at Great Keynes, perfectly fear- 
less and perfectly devoted to the Church and to the priest he 
served. He nodded his head briskly with approval as the plan 
was explained. 

“Of course it may all be nothing,” ended Anthony, “and then 
you will think me a poor fool?” 

The lad grinned cheerfully. 

“No, sir,”’ he said. 

All this while they had been riding slowly on together, and 
now the wood showed signs of coming to an end; so Anthony 
told the groom to ride fifty yards into the undergrowth at once, 
to bandage his horse’s eyes, and to tie him to a tree; and then 
to creep back himself near the road, so as to see without being 
seen. The men who seemed to be following were at least half 
a mile behind, so he would have plenty of time. 

Then they all rode on together again, leaving Robert to find 
his way into the wood. As they went, Isabel began to question 
her brother, and Anthony gave her his views. 

“They have not come up with us, because they know we are 
four men to three—if, as I think, they are not more than three 
—that is one reason; and another is that they love to track us 
home before they take us; and thus take our hosts too as priests’ 
harbourers. Now plainly these men do not know where we are 
bound, or they would not follow us so closely. Best of all, too, 
they love to catch us at mass, for then they have no trouble in 
proving their case. I think then that they will not try to take 
us till we reach the Manor Lodge; and we must do our best to 
shake them off before that. Now the plot I have thought of is 
this, that—should it prove as I think it will—we should ride 
slower than ever, as if our horses were weary, down the road 
along which Robert will have come after he has joined us, and 





IN STANSTEAD WOODS 423 


turn down as if to go to Kingsdown, and when we have gone 
half a mile, and are well round that sharp corner, double back 
to it, and hide all in the wood at the side. They will follow 
our tracks, and there are no houses at which they can ask, and 
there seem no travellers either on these by-roads, and when they 
have passed us we double back at the gallop, and down the next 
turning, which will bring us in a couple of miles to Stanstead. 
There is a maze of roads thereabouts, and it will be hard if we 
do not shake them off; for there is not a house, marked upon the 
map, at which they can ask after us.” 

Isabel did her utmost to understand, but the horror of the 
pursuit had overwhelmed her. The quiet woods into which they 
had passed again after leaving Fawkham Green now seemed full 
of menace; the rough road, with the deep powdery ruts and the 
grass and fir-needles at the side, no longer seemed a pleasant path 
leading home, but a treacherous device to lead them deeper into 
danger. The creatures round them, the rabbits, the pigeons that 
flapped suddenly out of all the tall trees, the tits that fluttered 
on and chirped and fluttered again, all seemed united against 
Anthony in some dreadful league. Anthony himself felt all his 
powers of observation and device quickened and established. He 
had lived so long in the expectation of a time like this, and had 
rehearsed and mastered the emotions of terror and suspense so 
often, that he was ready to meet them; and gradually his entire 
self-control and the unmoved tones of his voice and his serene 
alert face prevailed upon Isabel; and by the time that they slowly 
turned the last curve and saw Robert on his black horse waiting 
for them at the corner, her sense of terror and bewilderment had 
passed, her heart had ceased that sick thumping, and she, too, 
was tranquil and capable. 

Robert wheeled his horse and rode beside Anthony round the 
sharp corner to the left up the road along which he had trotted 
just now. 

“There are three of them, sir,” he said in an even, business- 
like voice; “one of them, sir, on a brown mare, but I couldn’t 
see aught of him, sir; he was on the far side of the track; the 
second is like a groom on a grey horse, and the third is dressed 
like a sailor, sir, on a brown horse.” 

“A sailor?” said Anthony; “a lean man, and sunburnt, with 
a whistle?” 

“T did not see the whistle, sir; but he is as you say.” 

This made it certain that it was the man they had seen in the 


424 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


inn opposite Greenhithe; and also practically certain that he 
was a spy; for nothing that Anthony had done could have 
roused his suspicions except the breaking of the bread; and that 
would only be known to one who was deep in the counsels of 
the Catholics. All this made the pursuit the more formidable. 

So Anthony meditated; and presently, calling up the servants 
behind, explained the situation and his plan. The French maid 
showed signs of hysteria and Isabel had to take her aside and 
quiet her, while the men consulted. Then it was arranged, and the 
servants presently dropped behind again a few yards, though 
the maid still rode with Isabel. Then they came to the road on 
the right that would have led them to Kingsdown, and down this 
they turned. As they went, Anthony kept a good look-out for 
a place to turn aside, and a hundred yards from the turning 
saw what he wanted. On the left-hand side a little path led into 
the wood; it was overgrown with brambles, and looked as if it 
were now disused. Anthony gave the word and turned his horse 
down the entrance, and was followed in single file by the others. 
There were thick trees about them on every side, and, what was 
far more important, the road they had left at this point ran 
higher than usual, and was hard and dry; so the horse’s hoofs 
as they turned off left no mark that would be noticed. 

After riding thirty or forty yards, Anthony stopped, turned 
his horse again, and forced him through the hazels with some dif- 
ficulty, and the others again followed in silence through the 
passage he had made. Presently Anthony stopped; the branches 
that had swished their faces as they rode through now seemed a 
little higher; and it was possible to sit here on horseback without 
any great discomfort. 

“T must see them myself,” he whispered to Isabel; and slipped 
off his horse, giving the bridie to Robert. 

“Oh! mon Dieu!” moaned the maid; “mon Dieu! Ne partez 
pas!”’ 

Anthony looked at her severely. 

“You must be quiet and brave,” he said sternly. “You are 
a Catholic too; pray, instead of crying.” 

Then Isabel saw him slip noiselessly towards the road, which 
was some fifty yards away, through the thick growth. 


It was now a breathless afternoon. High overhead the sun 
blazed in a cloudless sky, but down here all was cool, green 
shadow. There was not a sound to be heard from the woods, 


ee S 


IN STANSTEAD WOODS 425 


beyond the mellow hum of the flies; Anthony’s faint rustlings 
had ceased; now and then a saddle creaked, or a horse blew 
out his nostrils or tossed his head. One of the men wound his 
handkerchief silently round a piece of his horse’s head-harness 
that jingled a little. The maid drew a soft sobbing breath now 
and then, but she dared not speak after the priest’s rebuke. 

Then suddenly there came another sound to Isabel’s ears; she 
could not distinguish at first what it was, but it grew nearer, 
and presently resolved itself into the fumbling noise of several 
horses’ feet walking togther, twice or three times a stirrup chinked, 
once she heard a muffled cough; but no word was spoken. Nearer 
and nearer it came, until she could not believe that it was not 
within five yards of her. Her heart began again that sick thump- 
ing; a fly that she had brushed away again and again now 
crawled unheeded over her face, and even on her white parted 
lips; but a sob of fear from the maid recalled her, and she turned 
a sharp look of warning on her. Then the fumbling noise began 
to die away: the men were passing. There was something in 
their silence that was more terrible than all else; it reminded her 
of hounds running on a hot scent. 

Then at last there was silence; then gentle rustlings again over 
last year’s leaves; and Anthony came back through the hazels. 
He nodded at her sharply. 

“Now, quickly,” he said, and took his horse by the bridle and 
began to lead him out again the way they had come. At the 
entrance he looked out first; the road was empty and silent. 
Then he led his horse clear, and mounted as the others came 
out one by one in single file. 

“Now follow close, and watch my hand,” he said; and he 
put his horse to a quick walk on the soft wayside turf. As the 
distance widened between them and the men who were now 
riding away from them, the walk became a trot, and then quickly 
a canter, as the danger of the sound being carried to their pursuers 
decreased. 

It seemed to Isabel like some breathless dream as she followed 
Anthony’s back, watching the motions of his hand as he signed 
in which direction he was going to turn next. What was hap- 
pening, she half wondered to herself, that she should be riding 
like this on a spent horse, as if in some dreadful game, turning 
abruptly down lanes and rides, out across the high road, and down 
again another turn, with the breathing and creaking and jingling 
of others behind her? Years ago the two had played Follow- 


426 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


my-leader on horseback in the woods above Great Keynes. She 
remembered this now; and a flood of memories poured across 
her mind and diluted the bitterness of this shocking reality. Dear 
God, what a game! 

Anthony steered with skill and decision. He had been studying 
the map with great attention, and even now carried it loose in 
his hand and glanced at it from time to time. Above all else 
he wished to avoid passing a house, for fear that the searchers 
might afterwards inquire at it; and he succeeded perfectly in 
this, though once or twice he was obliged to retrace his steps. 
There was little danger, he knew now, of the noise of the horses’ 
feet being any guide to those who were searching, for the high 
table-land on which they rode was a labyrinth of lanes and rides, 
and the trees too served to echo and confuse the noise they could 
not altogether avoid making. Twice they passed travellers, one 
a farmer on an old grey horse, who stared at this strange hurry- 
ing party; and once a pedlar, laden with his pack, who trudged 
past, head down. 

Isabel’s horse was beginning to strain and pant, and she herself 
to grow giddy with heat and weariness, when she saw through 
the trees an old farmhouse with latticed windows and a great 
external chimney, standing in a square of cultivated ground; and 
in a moment more the path they were following turned a corner, 
and the party drew up at the back of the house. 

At the noise of the horse’s footsteps a door at the back had 
opened, and a woman’s face looked out and drew back again; 
and presently from the front Mrs. Kirke came quickly round. 
She was tall and slender and middle-aged, with a somewhat 
anxious face; but a look of great relief came over it as she saw 
Anthony. 

“Thank God you are come,” she said; “I feared something 
had happened.” 

Anthony explained the circumstances in a few words. 

“T will ride on gladly, madam, if you think right; but I will 
ask you in any case to take my sister in.” 

“Why, how can you say that?” she said; “I am a Catholic. 
Come in, father. But I fear there is but poor accommodation 
for the servants.” 

“‘And the horses?” asked Anthony. 

“The barn at the back is got ready for them,” she said; “per- 
haps it would be well to take them there at once.” She called 
a woman, and sent her to show the men where to stable the 





IN STANSTEAD WOODS 427 


horses, while Anthony and Isabel and the maid dismounted and 
came in with her to the house. 

There, they talked over the situation and what was best to 
be done. Her husband had ridden over to Wrotham, and she 
expected him back for supper; nothing then could be finally set- 
tled till he came. In the meantime the Manor Lodge was prob- 
ably the safest place in all the woods, Mrs. Kirke declared; the 
nearest house was half a mile away, and that was the Rectory; 
and the Rector himself was a personal friend and favourable 
to Catholics. The Manor Lodge, too, stood well off the road to 
Wrotham, and not five strangers appeared there in the year. 
Fifty men might hunt the woods for a month and not find it; 
in fact, Mr. Kirke had taken the house on account of its privacy, 
for he was weary, his wife said, of paying her fines for recusancy; 
and still more unwilling to pay his own, when that happy neces- 
sity should arrive; for he had now practically made up his mind 
to be a Catholic, and only needed a little instruction before being 
received. 

“He is a good man, father,” she said to Anthony, ‘‘and will 
make a good Catholic.” 

Then she explained about the accommodation. Isabel and the 
maid would have to sleep together in the spare room, and An- 
thony would have the little dressing-room opening out of it; 
and the men, she feared, would have to shake down as well as 
they could in the loft over the stable in the barn. 

At seven o’clock Mr. Kirke arrived; and when the situation 
had been explained to him, he acquiesced in the plan. He seemed 
confident that there was but little danger; and he and Anthony 
were soon deep in theological talk. 

Anthony found him excellently instructed already; he had, in 
fact, even prepared for his confession; his wife had taught him 
well; and it was the prospect of this one good opportunity of 
being reconciled to the Church that had precipitated matters and 
decided him to take the step. He was a delightful companion, 
too, intelligent, courageous, humorous and modest, and Anthony 
thought his own labour and danger well repaid when, a little 
after midnight, he heard his confession and received him into the 
Church. It was impossible for Mr. Kirke to receive communion, 
as he had wished, for there were wanting some of the necessaries 
for saying mass; so he promised to ride across to Stanfield in 
a week or so, stay the night and communicate in the morning. 

Then early the next morning a council was held as to the best 


428 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


way for the party to leave for Stanfield. The men were called 
up, and their opinions asked; and gradually step by step a plan 
was evolved. 

The first requirement was that, if possible, the party should 
not be recognisable; the second that they should keep together 
for mutual protection; for to separate would very possibly mean 
the apprehension of some one of them; the third was that they 
should avoid so far as was possible villages and houses and fre- 
quented roads. 

Then the first practical suggestion was made by Isabel that 
the maid should be left behind, and that Mr. Kirke should bring 
her on with him to Stanfield when he came a week later. This 
he eagerly accepted, and further offered to keep all the luggage 
they could spare, take charge of the men’s liveries, and lend 
them old garments and hats of his own—to one a cloak, and 
to another a doublet. In this way, he said, it would appear to 
be a pleasure party rather than one of travellers, and, should they 
be followed, this would serve to cover their traces. The travelling 
by unfrequented roads was more difficult; for that in itself might 
attract attention should they actually meet any one. 

Anthony, who had been thinking in silence a moment or two, 
now broke in. 

“Have you any hawks, Mr. Kirke?” he asked. 

“Only one old peregrine,” he said, “past sport.” 

“She will do,” said Anthony; ‘‘and can you borrow another?” 

“There is a merlin at the Rectory,” said Mr. Kirke. 

Then Anthony explained his plan, that they should pose as a 
hawking-party. Isabel and Robert should each carry a hawk, 
while he himself would carry on his wrist an empty leash and 
hood as if a hawk had escaped; that they should then all ride 
together over the open country, avoiding every road, and that, 
if they should see any one on the way, they should inquire 
whether he had seen an escaped falcon or heard the tinkle of 
the bells; and this would enable them to ask the way, should it 
be necessary, without arousing suspicion. 

This plan was accepted, and the maid was informed to her 
great relief that she might remain behind for a week or so, and 
then return with Mr. Kirke after the searchers had left the 
woods. 

It was a twenty-mile ride to Stanfield; and it was thought 
safer on the whole not to remain any longer where they were, as 
it was impossible to know whether a shrewd man might not, with 


IN STANSTEAD WOODS 429 


the help of a little luck, stumble upon the house; so, when dinner 
was over, and the servants had changed into Mr. Kirke’s old 
suits, and the merlin had been borrowed from the Rectory for 
a week’s hawking, the horses were brought round and the party 
mounted. 

Mr. Kirke and Anthony had spent a long morning together 
discussing the route, and it had been decided that it would be 
best to keep along the high ridge due west until they were a 
little beyond Kemsing, which they would be able to see below 
them in the valley; and then to strike across between that vil- 
lage and Otford, and keeping almost due south ride up through 
Knole Park; then straight down on the other side into the Weald, 
and so past Tonbridge home. 

Mr. Kirke himself insisted on accompanying them on his cob 
until he had seen them clear of the woods on the high ground. 
Both he and his wife were full of gratitude to Anthony for the 
risk and trouble he had undergone, and did their utmost to pro- 
vide them with all that was necessary for their disguise. At last, 
about two o’clock, the five men and Isabel rode out of the little 
yard at the back of the Manor Lodge and plunged into the woods 
again. 

The afternoon hush rested on the country as they followed Mr. 
Kirke along a narrow seldom-used path that led almost straight 
to the point where it was decided that they should strike south. 
In half a dozen places it cut across lanes, and once across the 
great high road from Farningham to Wrotham. As they drew 
near this, Mr. Kirke, who was riding in front, checked them. 

“T will go first,” he said, ‘“‘and see if there is danger.” 

In a minute he returned. 

“There is a man about a hundred yards up the road asleep on 
a bank; and there is a cart coming up from Wrotham: that is 
all I can see. Perhaps we had better wait till the cart is gone.” 

“And what is the man like?” asked Anthony. 

“He is a beggar, I should say; but has his hat over his eyes.” 

They waited till the cart had passed. Anthony dismounted 
and went to the entrance of the path and peered out at the man; 
he was lying, as Mr. Kirke had said, with his hat over his eyes, 
perfectly still. Anthony examined him a minute or two; he was 
in tattered clothes, and a great stick and a bundle lay beside 
him. 

“Tt is a vagabond,” he said, “we can go on.” 

The whole party crossed the road, pushing on towards the 


430 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


edge of the high downs over Kemsing; and presently came to the 
Ightam road where it began to run steeply down hill; here, too, 
Mr. Kirke looked this way and that, but no one was in sight, 
and then the whole party crossed; they kept inside the edge of 
the wood all the way along the downs for another mile or so, 
with the rich sunlit valley seen in glimpses through the trees 
here and there, and the Pilgrim’s Way lying like a white ribbon 
a couple of hundred feet below them, until at last Kemsing 
Church, with St. Edith’s Chantry at the side, lay below and 
behind them, and they came out on to the edge of a great scoop 
in the hill, like a theatre, and the blue woods and hills of Surrey 
showed opposite beyond Otford and Brasted. 

Here they stopped, a little back from the edge, and Mr. Kirke 
gave them their last instructions, pointing out Seal across the 
valley, which they must leave on their left, skirting the meadows 
to the west of the church, and passing up towards Knole beyond. 

“Let the sun be a little on your right,” he said, “all the way; 
and you will strike the country above Tonbridge.” 

Then they said good-bye to one another; Mr. Kirke kissed the 
priest’s hand in gratitude for what he had done for him, and then 
turned back along the edge of the downs, riding this time outside 
the woods, while the party led their horses carefully down the 
steep slope, across the Pilgrim’s Way, and then struck straight 
out over the meadows to Seal. 

Their plan seemed supremely successful; they met a few 
countrymen and lads at their work, who looked a little astonished 
at first at this great party riding across country, but more satis- 
fied when Anthony had inquired of them whether they had seen 
a falcon or heard his bells. No, they had not, they said; and 
went on with their curiosity satisfied. Once, as they were passing 
down through a wood on to the Weald, Isabel, who had turned in 
her saddle, and was looking back, gave a low cry of alarm. 

“Ah! the man, the man!”’ she said. 

The others turned quickly, but there was nothing to be seen 
but the long straight ride stretching up to against the sky-line 
three or four hundred yards behind them. Isabel said she thought 
she saw a rider pass across this little opening at the end, framed 
in leaves; but there were stags everywhere in the woods here, and 
it would have been easy to mistake one for the other at that dis- 
tance, and with such a momentary glance. 

Once again, nearer Tonbridge, they had a fright. They had 
followed up a grass ride into a copse, thinking it would bring them 


IN STANSTEAD WOODS 431 


out somewhere, but it led only to the brink of a deep little stream, 
where the plank bridge had been removed, so they were obliged 
to retrace their steps. As they re-emerged into the field from 
the copse, a large heavily-built man on a brown mare almost 
rode into them. He was out of breath, and his horse seemed dis- 
tressed. Anthony, as usually, immediately asked if he had seen 
or heard anything of a falcon. 

“No, indeed, gentlemen,’ he said, “and have you seen aught 
of a bitch who bolted after a hare some half mile back. A grey- 
hound I should be loath to lose.” 

They had not, and said so; and the man, still panting and mop- 
ping his head, thanked them, and asked whether he could be of 
any service in directing them, if they were strange to the coun- 
try; but they thought it better not to give him any hint of where 
they were going, so he rode off presently up the slope across their 
route and disappeared, whistling for his dog. 

And so, at last, about four o’clock in the afternoon, they saw 
the church spire of Stanfield above them on the hill, and knew 
that they were near the end of their troubles. Another hundred 
yards, and there were the roofs of the old house, and the great 
iron gates, and the vanes of the garden-house seen over the clipped 
limes; and then Mary Corbet and Mr. Buxton hurrying in from 
the garden, as they came through the low oak door, into the dear 
tapestried hall. 


CHAPTER IX 
THE ALARM 


A very happy party sat down to supper that evening in Stanfield 
Place. 

Anthony had taken Mr. Buxton aside privately when the first 
greetings were over, and told him all that happened: the alarm at 
Stanstead; his device, and the entire peace they had enjoyed 
ever since. 

“Tsabel,” he ended, ‘certainly thought she saw a man behind 
us once; but we were among the deer, and it was dusky in the 
woods; and, for myself, I think it was but a stag. But, if you 
think there is danger anywhere, I will gladly ride on.” 

Mr. Buxton clapped him on the shoulder. 

“My dear friend,” he said, “take care you do not offend me. 
I am a slow fellow, as you know; but even my coarse hide is 
pricked sometimes. Do not suggest again that I could permit 
any priest—and much less my own dear friend—to leave me 
when there was danger. But there is none in this case—you have 
shaken the rogues off, I make no doubt; and you wil] just stay 
here for the rest of the summer at the very least.” 

Anthony said that he agreed with him as to the complete 
baffling of the pursuers, but added that Isabel was still a little 
shaken, and would Mr. Buxton say a word to her. 

“Why, I will take her round the hiding-holes myself after 
supper, and show her how strong and safe we are. We will all 
go round.” 

In the withdrawing-room he said a word or two of reassurance 
to her before the others were down. 

“Anthony has told me everything, Mistress Isabel; and I war- 
rant that the knaves are cursing their stars still on Stanstead hills, 
twenty miles from here. You are as safe here as in Greenwich 
palace. But after supper, to satisfy you, we will look to our 
defences. But, believe me, there is nothing to fear.” 

He spoke with such confidence and cheerfulness that Isabel 
felt her fears melting, and before supper was over she was ashamed 
of them, and said so. 

432 


THE ALARM 433 


“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Buxton, “you shall not escape. You 
shall see every one of them for yourself. Mistress Corbet, do you 
not think that just?” 

“Vou need a little more honest worldliness, Isabel,” said Mary. 
“T do not hesitate to say that I believe God saves the priests that 
have the best hiding-holes. Now that is not profane, so do not 
look at me like that.” 

“Tt is the plainest sense,” said Anthony, smiling at them both. 

They went the round of them all with candles, and Anthony 
refreshed his memory; they visited the little one in the chapel 
first, then the cupboard and portrait-door at the top of the corri- 
dor, the chamber over the fireplace in the hall, and lastly, in the 
wooden cellar-steps they lifted the edge of the fifth stair from 
the bottom, so that its front and the top of the stair below it 
turned on a hinge and dropped open, leaving a black space behind: 
this was the entrance to the passage that led beneath the garden to 
the garden-house on the far side of the avenue. 

Mistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell 
that breathed out of the dark. 

“TI am glad I am not a priest,” she said. “And I would sooner 
be buried dead than alive. And there is a rat there that sorely 
needs burying.” 

“My dear lady!” cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, 
“her Grace might sleep there herself and take no harm. ‘There 
is not even the whisker of a rat.” 

“Tt is not the whisker that I mind,” said Mary, “it is the rest 
of him.” | 

Mr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in. 

“You shall see,” he said, ‘“‘and I in my best satin too!” 

He was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the 
smooth board that backed them. He sidled himself slowly along 
towards the wall. 

“Press the fourth brick of the fourth row,” he said. ‘You 
remember, Father Anthony?” 

He had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against 
which the ends of the stairs rested; and that closed that end of 
the cellars altogether. Anthony leaned in with a candle, and saw 
how that part of the wall against his friend’s right side slowly 
turned into the dark as the fourth brick was pressed, and a little 
brick-lined passage appeared beyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself 
sideways into the passage, and then stood nearly upright. It was 
an excellent contrivance. Even if the searchers should find the 


434 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


chamber beneath the stairs, which was unlikely, they would never 
suspect that it was only a blind to a passage beyond. The door 
into the passage consisted of a strong oaken door disguised on the 
outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges were within. 

“As sweet as a flower,” said the architect, looking about him. 
His voice rang muffled and hollow. 

“Then the friends have removed the corpse,” said Mary, put- 
ting her head in, “while you were opening the door. There! 
come out; you will take cold. I believe you.” 

‘“‘Are you Satisfied?” said Mr. Buxton to Isabel, as they went 
upstairs again. 

“What are your outer defences?” asked Mary, before Isabel 
could answer. 

“You shall see the plan in the hall,” said Mr. Buxton. 

He took down the frame that held the plan of the house, and 
showed them the outer doors. There was first the low oak front 
door on the north, opening on to the little court; this was im- 
mensely strong and would stand battering. Then on the same 
side farther east, within the stable-court, there was the servants’ 
door, protected by chains, and an oak bolt that ran across. On 
the extreme east end of the house there was a door opening into 
the garden from the withdrawing-room, the least strong of all; 
there was another on the south side, opposite the front door— 
that gave on to the garden; and lastly there was an entrance into 
the priests’ end of the house, at the extreme west, from the little 
walled garden where Anthony had meditated years ago. This 
walled garden had a very strong door of its own opening on to 
the lane between the church and the house. 

“But there are only three ways out, really,” said Mr. Buxton, 
“for the garden walls are high and strong. There is the way 
of the wailed garden; the iron-gates across the drive; and 
through the stable-yard on to the field-path to East Maskells. 
All the other gates are kept barred; and indeed I scarcely know 
where the keys are.” 

“T am bewildered,” said Mary. 

“Shall we go round?” he asked. 

“To-morrow,” said Mary; “I am tired to-night, and so is this 
poor child. Come, we will go to bed.” 

Anthony soon went too. Both he and Isabel were tired with 
the journey and the strain of anxiety, and it was a keen joy to 
him to be back again in his own dear room, with the tapestry of 
St. Thomas of Aquin and St. Clare opposite the bed, and the 





THE ALARM 435 


wide curtained bow-window which looked out on the little walled 
garden. 


Mr. Buxton was left alone in the great hall below with the two 
tapers burning, and the starlight with all the suffused glow of a 
summer night making the arms glimmer in the tall windows that 
looked south. Lower, the windows were open, and the mellow 
scents of the June roses, and of the sweet-satyrian and lavender 
poured in; the night was very still, but the faintest breath came 
from time to time across the meadows and rustled in the stiff 
leaves with the noise of a stealthy movement. 

“T will look round,” said Mr. Buxton to himself. 

He stepped out immediately into the garden by the hall door, 
and turned to the east, passing along the lighted windows. His 
step sounded on the tiles, and a face looked out swiftly from 
Isabel’s room overhead; but his figure was plain in the light from 
the windows as he came out round the corner; and the face drew 
back. He crossed the east end of the house, and went through a 
little door into the stable-yard, locking it after him. In the 
kennels in the corner came a movement, and a Danish hound came 
out silently into the cage before her house, and stood up, like a 
slender grey ghost, paws high up in the bars, and whimpered 
softly to her lord. He quieted her, and went to the door in the 
yard that opened on to the field-path to East Maskells, unbarred 
it and stepped through. There was a dry ditch on his left, where 
nettles quivered in the stirring air; and a heavy clump of bushes 
rose beyond, dark and impenetrable. Mr. Buxton stared straight 
at these a moment or two, and then out towards East Maskells. 
There lay his own meadows, and the cattle and horses secure and 
sleeping. Then he stepped back again; barred the door and 
walked up through the stable-yard into the front court. There 
the great iron gates rose before him, diaphanous-looking and 
flimsy in the starlight. He went up to them and shook them; 
and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead. Then he peered 
through, holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch of grass 
beyond the gravel sweep, and the dark cottages over the way. 
Then he made his way back to the front door, unlocked it with his 
private key, passed through the hall, through a parlour or two 
into the lower floor of the priests’ quarters; unlocked softly the 
little door into the walled garden, and went out on tip-toe once 
more. Even as he went, Anthony’s light overhead went out. Mr. 
Buxton went to the garden door, unfastened it, and stepped out 


436 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


into the road. Above him on his left rose up the chancel of the 
parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediately in front 
was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall and 
the trees above all, blotting out the stars. 

Then he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he 
passed, and reached the hall, where the tapers still burned. He 
blew out one and took the other. 

“YT suppose I am a fool,” he said; “the lad is as safe as in his 
mother’s arms.” And he went upstairs to bed. 


Mary Corbet rose late-next morning, and when she came down 
at last found the others in the garden. She joined them as they 
walked in the little avenue. 

“Have not the priest-hunters arrived?” she asked. ‘What are 
they about? And you, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?” 

Isabel looked a little heavy-eyed. “I did not sleep well,’ she 
said. 

“T fear I disturbed her,” said Mr. Buxton. “She heard me as 
I went round the house.” 

‘Why did you go round the house?” asked Anthony. 

“T often do,” he said shortly. 

‘“‘And there was no one?” asked Mary. 

“There was no one.” 

“And what would you have done if there had been?” 

“Yes,” said Anthony, “what would you have done to warn 
us all?” 

Mr. Buxton considered. 

“T should have rung the alarm, I think,” he said. 

“But I did not know you had one,” said Mary. 

Mr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high 
gables, above his own room. 

‘“‘And what does it sound like?” 

“It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I 
cannot describe it. Above all, it is marvellous loud.” 

“Then, if we hear it, we shali know the priest-hunters are on 
us?” asked Mary. Mr. Buxton bowed. 

“Or that the house is afire,” he said, “or that the French or 
Spanish are landed.” 

To tell the truth, he was just slightly uneasy. Isabel had been 
far more silent than he had ever known her, and her nerves were 
plainly at an acute tension; she started violently even now, when 
a servant came out between two yew-hedges to call Mr. Buxton 


se ee 


THE ALARM 437 


in. Her alarm had affected him, and besides, he knew something 
of the extraordinary skill and patience of Walsingham’s agents, 
and even the story of the ferry had startled him. Could it really 
be, he had wondered as he tossed to and fro in the hot night, 
that this innocent priest had thrown off his pursuers so com- 
pletely as had appeared? In the morning he had sent down a 
servant to the inn to inquire whether anything had been seen or 
heard of a disquieting nature; now the servant had come to tell 
him, as he had ordered, privately. He went with the man in 
through the hall-door, leaving the others to walk in the avenue, 
and then faced him. 

“Well?” he said sharply. 

“No, sir, there is nothing. There is a party there travelling 
on to Brighthelmstone this afternoon, and four drovers who came 
in last night, sir; and two gentlemen travelling across country; 
but they left early this morning.” 

“They left, you say?” 

“They left at eight o’clock, sir.” 

Mr. Buxton’s attention was attracted to these two gentlemen. 

“Go and find out where they came from,” he said, “and let me 
know after dinner.” 

The man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the 
dinner-bell rang. 

Mary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this 
superb weather with her friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house 
with its furniture and pictures, and even took a certain pleasure 
in the hiding-holes themselves; although in this case she was 
satisfied they would not be needed. She had heard the tale of 
the Stanstead woods, and had no shadow of doubt but that the 
searchers, if, indeed, they were searchers at all, were baffled. So 
at dinner she talked exactly as usual; and the cloud of slight 
discomfort that still hung over Isabel grew lighter and lighter as 
she listened. The windows of the hall were flung wide, and the 
warm summer air poured from the garden into the cool room with 
its polished floor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, 
with its grave tapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim 
visors and pikes that hung against them. 

The talk turned on music. 

“Ah! I would I had my lute,” sighed Mary, ‘but my woman 
forgot to bring it. What a garden to sing in, in the shade of 
the yews, with the garden-house behind to make the voice sound 
better than it is!” 


438 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Mr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur. 

“Thank you,” she said. ‘Master Anthony, you are wool- 
gathering.” 

“Indeed not,” he said, “but I was thinking where I had seen 
a lute. Ah! it is in the little west parlour.” 

‘“‘A lute!” cried Mary. “Ah! but I have no music; and I have 
not the courage to sing the only song I know, over and over 
again,” 

“But there is music too,” said Anthony. 

Mary clapped her hands. 

‘When dinner is over,” she said, “you and I will go to find it.” 

Dinner was over at last, and the four rose. 

“Come,” said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and 
Mr. Buxton went to his room. ‘We will be with you presently,” 
she cried after Isabel. 

Then the two went together to the little west parlour, oak- 
panelled, with a wide fireplace with the logs in their places, and 
the latticed windows with their bottle-end glass, looking upon the 
walled garden. Anthony stood on a chair and opened the top 
window, letting a flood of summer noises into the room. 

They found the lute music, written over its six lines with the 
queer F’s and double F’s and numerals—all Hebrew to Anthony, 
but bursting and blossoming with delicate melodies to Mary’s 
eyes. Then she took up the lute, and tuned it on her knee, still 
sitting in a deep lounging-chair, with her buckled feet before 
her; while Anthony sat opposite and watched her supple flashing 
fingers busy among the strings, and her grave abstracted look as 
she listened critically. Then she sounded the strings in little 
rippling chords. 

‘“‘Ah! it is a sweet old lute,” she said. ‘Put the music before 
me.” 

Anthony propped it on a chair. 

“Ts that the right side up?” he asked. 

Mary smiled and nodded, still looking at the music. 

‘“‘Now then,” she said, and began the prelude. 


Anthony threw himself back in his chair as the delicate tinkling 
began to pour out and overscore the soft cooing of a pigeon 
on the roofs somewhere and the murmur of bees through the open 
window. It was an old precise little love-song from Italy, with 
a long prelude, suggesting by its tender minor chords true and 
restrained love, not passionate but tender, not despairing but 


THE ALARM 439 


melancholy; it was a love that had for its symbols not the rose 
and the lily, but the lavender and thyme—acrid in its sweetness. 
The prelude had climbed up by melodious steps to the keynote, 
and was now rippling down again after its aspirations. 

Mary stirred herself. 

Ah! now the voice would come in the last chord when all 
the music was first drowned and then ceased, as with crash after 
crash a great bell, sonorous and piercing, began to sound from 
overhead. 





CHAPTER X 
THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 


THE two looked at one another with parted lips, but without a 
word. Then both rose simultaneously. Then the bell jingled 
and ceased; and a crowd of other noises began; there were shouts, 
tramplings of hoofs in the court; shrill voices came over the wall; 
then a scream or two. Mary sprang to the door and opened it, 
and stood there listening. 

Then from the interior of the house came an indescribable din, 
tramplings of feet and shouts of anger; then violent blows on 
woodwork. It came nearer in a moment of time, as a tide comes 
in over flat sands, remorselessly swift. Then Mary with one 
movement was inside again, and had locked the door and drawn 
the bolt. | 

“Up there,” she said, “it is the only way—they are outside,” 
and she pointed to the chimney. 

Anthony began to remonstrate. It was intolerable, he felt, to 
climb up the chimney like a hunted cat, and he began a word 
or two. But Mary seized his arm. 

“You must not be caught,” she said, ‘‘there are others”; and 
there came a confused battering and trampling outside. She 
pushed him towards the chimney. Then decision came to him, 
and he bent his head and stepped upon the logs laid upon the 
ashes, crushing them down. 

“Ah! go,” said Mary’s voice behind him, as the door began to 
bulge and creak. There was plainly a tremendous struggle in the 
little passage outside. 

Anthony threw his hands up and felt a high ledge in the dark- 
ness, gripped it with his hands and made a huge effort combined 
of a tug and a spring; his feet rapped sharply for a moment or two 
on the iron fireplate; and then his knee reached the ledge and 
he was up. He straightened himself on the ledge, stood upright 
and looked down; two white hands with rings on them were lifting 
the logs and drawing them out from the ashes, shaking them and 
replacing them by others from the wood-basket; and all delib- 


440 


THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 441 


erately, as if laying a fire. Then her voice came up to him, 
hushed but distinct. 

“Go up quickly. I will feign to be burning papers; there will 
be smoke, but no sparks. It is green wood.” 

Anthony again felt above him, and found two iron half-rings 
in the chimney, one above the other; he was in semi-darkness 
here, but far above there was a patch of pale smoky light; and all 
the chimney seemed full of a murmurous sound. He tugged at the 
rings and found them secure, and drew himself up steadily by 
the higher one, until his knee struck the lower; then with a great 
effort he got his knee upon it, then his left foot, and again 
straightened himself. Then, as he felt in the darkness once more, 
he found a system of rings, one above the other, up the side of 
the chimney, by which it was not hard to climb. As he went up 
he began to perceive a sharp acrid smell, his eyes smarted and he 
closed them, but his throat burned; he climbed fiercely; and then 
suddenly saw immediately below him another hearth; he was 
looking over the fireplate of some other room. In a moment more 
he thrust his head over, and drew a long breath of clear air; then 
he listened intently. From below still came a murmur of con- 
fusion; but in this room all was quiet. He began to think fran- 
tically. He could not remain in the chimney, it was hopeless; 
they would soon light fires, he knew, in all the chimneys, and 
bring him down. What room was this? He was bewildered and 
could not remember. But at least he would climb into it and try 
to escape. In a moment more he had lifted himself over the 
fireplate and dropped safely on to the hearth of his own bedroom. 

The fresh air and the familiarity of the room, as he looked 
round, swept the confusion out of his brain like a breeze. The 
thundering and shouting continued below. Then he went on 
tip-toe to the door and opened it. Round to the right was the 
head of the stairs which led straight into the little passage where 
the struggle was going on. He could hear Robert’s voice in the 
din; plainly there was no way down the stairs. To the left 
was the passage that ended in a window, with the chapel door at 
the left and the false shelves on the right. He hesitated a moment 
between the two hiding-places, and then decided for the cupboard; 
there was a clean doublet there; his own was one black smear of 
soot, and as he thought of it, he drew off his sooty shoes. His 
hose was fortunately dark. He stepped straight out of the door, 
leaving it just ajar. Even as he left it there was a thunder of 
footsteps on the stairs, and he was at the shelves in a moment, 


442 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


catching a glimpse through the window on his left of the front 
court crowded with men and horses. He had opened and shut the 
secret door three or four times the evening before, and his hands 
closed almost instinctively on the two springs that must be worked 
simultaneously. He made the necessary movement, and the 
shelves with the wall behind it softly slid open and he sprang in. 
But as he closed it he heard one of the two books drop, and an 
exclamation from the passage he had just left; then quick steps 
from the head of the stairs; the steps clattered past the door and 
into the chapel opposite and stopped. 

Anthony felt about him-in the darkness, found the doublet and 
lifted it off the nail; slipped off his own, tearing his ruff as he did 
so; and then quickly put on the other. He had no shoes; but 
that would not be so noticeable. He had not seriously thought 
of the possibility of escaping through the portrait-door, as he 
felt sure the house would be overrun by now; but he put his eyes 
to the pinholes and looked out; and to his astonishment saw that 
the gallery was empty. There it lay, with its Flemish furniture 
on the right and its row of windows on the left, and all as tran- 
quil as if there were no fierce tragedy of terror and wrath raging 
below. Again decision came to him; by a process of thought so- 
swift that it was an intuition, he remembered that the fail of the 
book outside would concentrate attention on that corner; it could 
not be long before the shelves were broken in, and if he did not 
escape now there would be no possibility later. Then he unslid 
the inside bolt, and the portrait swung open; he closed it behind, 
and sped on silent shoeless feet down the polished floor of the 
gallery. 

Of course the great staircase was hopeless. The hall would be 
seething with men. But there was just a chance through the 
servants’ quarters. He dashed past the head of the stairs, catch- 
ing a glimpse of heads and sparkles of steel over the banisters, 
and through the half-opened door at the end, finding himself in 
the men’s corridor that was a continuation of the gallery he had 
left. On his left rose the head of the back-stairs, that led first 
with a double flight to the offices, the pantry, the buttery and 
the kitchen, and then, lower still, a single third flight down to 
the cellar. 

He looked down the stairs; at the bottom of the first double 
flight were a couple of maids, screaming and white-faced, leaning 
and pressing against the door, immediately below the one he had 
just come through himself. The door was plainly barred as well, 


THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 443 


for it was now thudding and cracking with blows that were being 
showered upon it from the other side. The maids, it seemed to 
him, in a panic had locked the door; but that panic might be his 
salvation. He dashed down the stairs; the maids screamed louder 
than ever when théy saw this man, whom they did not recognise, 
with blackened face and hands come in_ noiseless leaps down 
towards them; but Anthony put his finger on his lips as he flew 
past them; then he dashed open the little door that shut off the 
cellar-flight, closed it behind him, and was immediately in the 
dark. 

Then he groped his way down, feeling the rough brick wall 
as he went, till he reached the floor of the cellar. The air was cool 
and damp here, and it refreshed him, for he was pouring with 
sweat. The noise, too, and confusion which, during his flight, 
_ had been reverberating through the house with a formidable din, 
now only reached him as a far-away murmur. 

As he counted the four steps up, and then lifted the over- 
hanging edge, there came upon him irresistibly the contrast 
between the serene party here last night, with their tapers and 
their delicate dresses and Mary’s cool clear-clipped voice—and 
his own soot-stained person, his desperate energy and his quick 
panting and heart-beating. Then the steps dropped and he slid 
in; lifted them again as he lay on his back, and heard the spring 
catch as they closed. Then he was in silence, too, and compara- 
tive safety. But he dared not rest yet, and edged himself along 
as he had seen Mr. Buxton do last night. Which brick was it? 
“The fourth of the fourth,’ he murmured, and counted, and 
pressed it. Again the door pushed back, and with a little struggle 
he was first on his knees, and then on his feet. Then he swung 
the door to again behind him. 

Then for the first time he rested; he leaned against the brick- 
lined side of the tunnel and passed his blackened hands over his 
face. Five minutes ago—yes—certainly not five minutes ago he 
was lounging in the west parlour, at the other end of the house, 
while Mary played the prelude to an Italian love-song.—What 
was she doing now? God bless her for her quick courage!—And 
Isabel and Buxton—where were they all? How deadly sick and 
tired he felt!—Again he passed his hands over his face in the 
pitch darkness.—Well, he must push on. 

He turned and began to grope patiently through the blackness 
—step by step—feeling the roughness of the bricks beneath with 
his shoeless feet before he set them down; once or twice he stepped 


444 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


into a little icy pool, which had collected through some crack in 
the vaulting overhead; once, too, he slipped on a lump of some- 
thing wet and shapeless; and thought even then of Mary’s 
suspicions the night before. He pushed on, shivering now with 
cold and excitement, through what seemed the interminable 
tunnel, until at last his outstretched hands touched wood before 
him. He had not seen this end of the passage for nearly two 
years, and he wondered if he could remember the method of 
opening, and gave a gulp of horror at the thought that he might 
not. But there had been no reason to make a secret of the inside 
of the door, and he presently found a button and drew it; it 
creaked rustily, but gave, and the door with another pull opened 
inwards, and there was a faint glimmer of light. Then he remem- 
bered that the entrances to the tunnel at either end were exactly 
on the same system; and putting out his hands felt the slope of 
the underside of the staircase, cutting diagonally across the open- 
ing of the passage. He slid himself on to the boarding sideways, 
and drew the brickwork towards him till the spring snapped, and 
lay there to consider before he went farther. 

First he ran over in his mind the construction of the garden- 
house. 

The basement in which he was lying corresponded to the cellar 
under the house from which he had come, and ran the whole 
length of the building, about forty feet by twenty. It was a 
large empty chamber, where nothing of any value was kept. He 
remembered last time he was here seeing a heap of tiles in one 
corner, with a pile of disused poles; pieces of rope, and old iron 
in another. The stairs led up through an ordinary trap-door into 
what was the ground-floor of the house. This, too, was one im- 
mense room, with four latticed windows looking on to the garden, 
and one with opaque glass on to the lane at the back; and a great 
door, generally kept locked, for rather more valuable things were 
kept here, such as the garden-roller, flower-pots, and the targets 
for archery. Then a light staircase led straight up from this room 
to the next floor, which was divided into two, both of which, so 
far as Anthony remembered, were empty. Mr. Buxton had 
thought of letting his gardeners sleep there when he had at first 
built this immense useless summer-house; but he had ultimately 
built a little gardener’s cottage adjoining it. The two fantastic 
towers that flanked the building held nothing but staircases, which 
could be entered by either of the two floors, and which ascended 
to tiny rooms with windows on all four sides. 





THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 445 


When Anthony had run over these details as he lay on his 
back, he pushed up the stair over his face and let the front of 
it with the step of the next swing inwards; the light was stronger 
now, and poured in, though still dim, through three half-moon 
windows, glazed and wired, that just rose above the level of the 
ground outside. Then he extricated himself, closed the steps 
behind him, and went up the stairs. 

The trap-door at the top was a little stiff, but he soon raised it, 
and in a moment more was standing in the ground-floor room of 
the garden-house. All round him was much as he remembered it; 
he first went to the door and found it securely fastened, as it 
often was for days together; he glanced at the windows to assure 
himself that they were bottle-glass too, and then went to them 
to look out. He was fortunate enough to find the corner of one 
pane broken away; he put his eye to this, and there lay a little 
lawn, with a yew-hedge beyond blotting out all of the great house 
opposite except the chimneys,—the house which even across the 
whole space of garden hummed like a hive. On the lawn was a 
chair, and an orange-bound book lay face down on the grass 
beside it. Anthony stared at it; it was the book that he had seen 
in Isabel’s hand not half an hour ago, as she had gone out into 
the garden from the hall to wait until he and Mary joined her 
with the lute. 

And at that the priest knelt down before the window, covered 
his face with his hands, and began to stammer and cry to God: 
“OQ God! God! God!” he said. 


When Mary Corbet had seen Anthony’s feet disappear, she 
already had the outline of a plan in her mind. To light a fire 
and pretend to be burning important papers would serve as an 
excuse for keeping the door fast; it would also suggest at least 
that no one was in the chimney. The ordinary wood, however, 
sent up sparks; but she had noticed before a little green wood in 
the basket, and knew that this did not do so to the same extent; 
so she pulled out the dry wood that Anthony had trodden into 
the ashes and substituted the other. Then she had looked round 
for paper;—the lute music, that was all. Meantime the door 
was giving; the noise outside was terrible; and it was evident that 
one or two of the servants were obstructing the passage of the 
pursuivants. 

When at last the door flew in, there was a fire cracking furiously 


446 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


on the hearth, and a magnificently dressed lady kneeling before 
it, crushing paper into the flames. Half a dozen men now 
streamed in and more began to follow, and stood irresolute for 
a moment, staring at her. From the resistance they had met 
with they had been certain that the priest was here, and this sight 
perplexed them. A big ruddy man, however, who led them, 
sprang across the room, seized Mary Corbet by the shoulders 
and whisked her away against the wall, and then dashed 
the half-burnt paper out of the grate and began to beat out the 
flames. 

Mary struggled violently for a moment; but the others were 
upon her and held her, and she presently stood quiet. Then she 
began upon them. 

“You insolent hounds!” she cried, ‘““do you know who I am?” 
Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes blazing; she seemed in a 
superb fury. 

“Burning treasonable papers,” growled the big man from his 
knees on the hearth, “that is enough for me.” 

“Who are you, sir, that dare to speak to me like that?” 

The man got up; the flames were out now, and he slipped the 
papers into a pocket. Mary went on immediately. 

“Tf I may not burn my own lute music, or keep my door locked, 
without a riotous mob of knaves breaking upon me—— Ah! how 
dare you?” and she stamped furiously. 

The pursuivant came up close to her, insolently. 

“See here, my lady ” he began. 

The men had fallen back from her a little now that the papers 
were safe, and she lifted her ringed hand and struck his ruddy 
face with all her might. There was a moment of confusion and 
laughter as he recoiled. 

‘“‘Now will you remember that her Grace’s ladies are not to be 
trifled with?” 

There was a murmur from the crowded room, and a voice near 
the door cried: 

“She says truth, Mr. Nichol. It is Mistress Corbet.” 

Nichol had recovered himself, but was furiously angry. 

“Very good, madam, but I have these papers now,” he said, 
“they can still be read.” 

“You blind idiot,” hissed Mary, “do you not know lute music 
when you see it?” 

“T know that ladies do not burn lute music with locked doors,” 
observed Nichol bitterly. 





THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 447 


“The more fool you!” screamed Mary, “when you have caught 
one at it.” 

“That will be seen,” sneered Mr. Nichol. 

“Not by a damned blind scarlet-faced porpoise!” screamed 
Mary, apparently more in a passion than ever, and a burst of 
laughter came from the men. 

This was too much for Mr. Nichol. This coarse abuse stung 
him cruelly. 

‘“‘God’s blood,” he bellowed at the room; “take this vixen out 
and search the place.”’ And a torrent of oaths drove the crowd 
about the door out into the passage again. 

A couple of men took Mary by the fierce ringed hands of hers 
that still twitched and clenched, and led her out; she spat insults 
over her shoulders as she went. But she had held him in talk as - 
she intended. 

“Now then,” roared Nichol again, “search, you dogs!” 

He himself went outside too, and seeing the stairs stamped up 
them. He was just in time to see the Tacitus settle down with 
crumpled pages; stopped for a moment, bewildered, for it lay in 
the middle of the passage; and then rushed at the open door on 
the left, dashed it open, and found a little empty room, with a 
chair or two, and a table—but no sign of the priest. It was like 
magic. 

Then out he came once more, and went into Anthony’s own 
room. The great bed was on his right, the window opposite, the 
fireplace to the left, and in the middle lay two sooty shoes. In- 
stinctively he bent and touched them, and found them warm; 
then he sprang to the door, still keeping his face to the room, 
and shouted for help. 

“He is here, he is here!” he cried. And a thunder of footsteps 
on the stairs answered him. 


Meanwhile the men that held Mary followed the others along 
the passage, but while the leaders went on and round into the 
lower corridor, the two men-at-arms with their prisoner turned 
aside into the parlour that served as an ante-chamber to the hall 
beyond, where they released her. Here, though it was empty of 
people, all was in confusion; the table had been overturned in the 
struggle that had raged along here between Lackington’s men, who 
had entered from the front door, and the servants of the house, 
who had rushed in from their quarters at the first alarm and 
intercepted them. One chair lay on its side, with its splintered 


448 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


carved arm beside it. As Mary stood a moment looking about 
her, the door from the hall that had been closed, again opened, 
and Isabel came through; and a man’s voice said: 

“You must wait here, madam’; then the door closed behind 
her. 

“Tsabel,” said Mary. 

The two looked at one another a moment, but before either 
spoke again the door again half-opened, and a voice began to 
speak, as if its owner still held the handle. 

“Very well, Lackington, keep him in his room. I will go 
through here to Nichol.” 

Isabel had drawn a sharp breath as the voice began, and as 
the door opened wider she turned and faced it. Then Hubert 
came in, and recoiled on the threshold. There fell a complete 
silence in the room. 

. “Ffubert,” said Isabel after a moment, “what are you doing 
here?” 

Hubert shut the door abruptly and leaned against it, staring 
at her; his face had gone white under the tan. Isabel still looked 
at him steadily, and her eyes were eloquent. Then she spoke 
again, and something in her voice quickened the beating of Mary’s 
heart as she listened. 

“Hubert, have you forgotten us?” 

Still Hubert stared; then he stood upright. The two men-at- 
arms were watching in astonishment. 

“T will see to the ladies,” he said abruptly, and waved his hand. 
They still hesitated a moment. 

“Go,” he said again sharply, and pointed to the door. He was 
a magistrate, and responsible; and they turned and went. 

Then Hubert looked at Isabel again. 

“Tsabel,” he said, “if I had known——” 

“Stay,” she interrupted, “‘there is no time for explanations ex- 
cept mine. Anthony is in the house; I do not know where. You 
must save him.” 

There was no entreaty or anxiety in her voice; nothing but a 
supreme dignity and an assurance that she would be obeyed. 

‘“But———” he began. The door was opened from the hall, and 
a little party of searchers appeared, but halted when the magis- 
trate turned round. 

‘““Come with me,” he said to the two women, “you must have a 
room kept for you upstairs,” and he held back the door for them 
to pass. 





THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 449 


Isabel put out her hand to Mary, and the two went out to- 
gether into the hall past the men, who stood back to let them 
through, and Hubert followed. They turned to the left to the 
stairs, looking as they went upon the wild confusion. Above them 
rose the carved ceiling, and in the centre of the floor, untouched, 
by a strange chance, stood the dinner-table, still laid with silver 
and fruit and flowers. But all else was in disarray. The leather 
screen that had stood by the door into the entrance hall had been 
overthrown, and had carried with it a tall flowering plant that 
now lay trampled and broken before the hearth. A couple of 
chairs lay on their backs between the windows; the rug under 
the window was huddled in a heap, and all over the polished 
boards were scratches and dents; a broken sword-hilt lay on the 
floor with a feathered cap beside it. There were half a dozen 
men guarding the four doors; but the rest were gone; and from 
overhead came tramplings and shouts as the hunt swept to and 
fro in the upper floors. 

At the top of the stairs was Mary’s room; the two ladies, who 
had gone silently upstairs with Hubert behind them, stopped at 
the door of it. 

“Here, if you please,” said Mary. 

Before Hubert could answer, Lackington came down the pas- 
sage, hurrying with a drawn sword, and his hat on his head. 
Isabel did not recognise him as he stopped and tapped Hubert 
on the arm familiarly. 

“The prisoners must not be together,” he said. 

Hubert drew back his arm and looked the man in the face. 

“They are not prisoners; and they shall be together. Take off 
your hat, sir.” 

Then, as Lackington drew back astonished, he opened the door. 

“You shall not be disturbed here,” he said, and the two went 
in, and the door closed behind them. There was a murmur of 
voices outside the door, and they heard a name called once or 
twice, and the sound of footsteps. Then came a tap, and Hubert 
stepped in quietly and closed the door. 

“T have placed my own man outside,” he said, ‘‘and none shall 
trouble you—-and—Mistress Isabel—I will do my best.” Then 
he bowed and went out. 


The long miserable afternoon began. They watched through 
the windows the sentries going up and down the broad paths be- 
tween the glowing flower-beds; and out, over the high iron fence 


450 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


that separated the garden from the meadows, the crowd of vil- 
lagers and children watching. 

But the real terror for them both lay in the sounds that came 
from the interior of the house. There was a continual tramp of 
the sentries placed in every corridor and lobby, and of the mes- 
sengers that went to and fro. Then from room after room came 
_ the sounds of blows, the rending of woodwork, and once or twice 
the crash of glass, as the searchers went about their work; and 
at every shout the women shuddered or drew their breath sharply, 
for any one of the noises might be the sign of Anthony’s arrest. 

The two had soon talked out every theory in low voices, but 
they both agreed that he was still in the house somewhere, and 
on the upper floor. It was impossible, they thought, for him to 
have made his way down. There were four possibilities, there- 
fore: either he might still be in the chimney—in that case it was 
no use hoping; or he was in the chapel-hole; or in that behind 
the portrait; or in one last one, in the room next to their own. 
The searchers had been there early in the afternoon, but perhaps 
had not found it; its entrance was behind the window shutter, and 
was contrived in the thickness of the wall. So they talked, these 
two, and conjectured and prayed, as the evening drew on; and 
the sun began to sink behind the church, and the garden to lie 
in cool shadow. 

About eight there was a tap at the door, and Hubert came in 
with a tray of food in his hands, which he set down. 

‘All is in confusion,” he said, “but this is the best I can do.”— 
He broke off. 

“Mistress Isabel,” he said, coming nearer to the two as they 
sat together in the window-seat, ‘‘I can do little; they have found 
three hiding-holes; but so far he has escaped. I do what I can 
to draw them off, but they are too clever and zealous. If you 
can tell me more, perhaps I can do more.” 

The two were looking at him with startled eyes. 

“Three?” Mary said. 

“Ves, three—and indeed ”” He stopped as Isabel got up 
and came towards him. 

“Hubert,”’ she said resolutely, “I must tell you. He must be 
still in the chimney of the little west parlour. Do what you 
can.” 

‘The west parlour!” he said. ‘‘That was where Mistress Corbet 
was burning the papers?” 

“Yes,” said Mary. 











THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE 451 


“He is not there,” said Hubert; “we have sent a boy up and 
down it already.” 

“Ah! dear God!” said Mary from the window-seat, “then he 
has escaped.” 

Isabel looked from one to the other and shook her head. 

“It cannot be,” she said. ‘“The guards were all round the 
house before the alarm rang.” 

Hubert nodded, and Mary’s face fell. 

“Then is there no way out?” he asked. 

Mary sprang up with shining eyes. 

“He has done it,” she said, and threw her arms round Isabel 
and kissed her. 

“Well,” said Hubert, “what can I do?” 

“You must leave us,” said Isabel; “‘come back later.” 

“Then when we have searched the garden-house—why, what 
is it?” 

A look of such anguish had come into their faces that he 
stopped amazed. 

“The garden-house!” cried Mary; “no, no, no!” 

“No, no, Hubert, Hubert!” cried Isabel, “you must not go 
there.” 

“Why,” he said, “it was I that proposed it; to draw them from 
the house.” 

There came from beneath the windows a sudden tramp of foot- 
steps, and then Nichol’s voice, distinctly heard through the open 
nanes. 

“We cannot wait for him. Come, men.” 

‘They are going without me,” said Hubert; and turned and ran 
through the door. 


CHAPTER XI 
THE GARDEN-HOUSE 


Durtinc that long afternoon the master of the house had sat in 
his own room, before his table, hearing the ceaseless footsteps and 
the voices overhead, and the ring of feet on the tiles outside his 
window, knowing that his friend and priest was somewhere in the 
house, crouching in some dark little space, listening to the same 
footsteps and voices as they came and went by his hiding-place, 
and that he himself was absolutely powerless to help. 

He had been overpowered in the first rush as he pealed on the 
alarm-bell, to which he had rushed when the groom burst in from 
the stable-yard crying that the outer court was full of men. Lack- 
ington had then sent him under guard to his own room, where he 
had been locked in with an armed constable to prevent any possi- 
bility of escape. In the struggle he had received a blow on the 
head which had completely dazed him; all his resource left him; 
and he had no desire even to move from his chair. 

Now he sat, with his head on his breast, and his mind going 
the ceaseless round of all the possible places where Anthony might 
be. Little scenes, too, of startling vividness moved before him, 
as he sat there with half-closed eyes—scenes of the imagined 
arrest—the scuffle as the portrait was torn away and Anthony 
burst out in one last desperate attempt to escape. He saw him 
under every kind of circumstance—dashing up stairs and being 
met at the top by a man with a pike—running and crouching 
through the withdrawing-room itself next door—gliding with 
burning eyes past the yew-hedges in a rush for the iron gates, 
only to find them barred—on horseback with his hands bound 
and a despairing uplifted face with pike-heads about him.—So 
his friend dreamed miserably on, open-eyed, but between waking 
and the sleep of exhaustion, until the crowning vision flashed 
momentarily before his eyes of the scaffold and the cauldron with 
the fire burning and the low gallows over the heads of the crowd, 
and the butcher’s block and knife; and then he moaned and 


452 





THE GARDEN-HOUSE ae 


sat up and stared about him, and the young pursuivant looked at 
him half-apprehensively. 

Towards evening the house grew quieter; once, about six o’clock, 
there were voices outside, the door from the hall was unlocked, 
and a heavily-built, ruddy man came in with two pikemen, lock- 
ing the door behind him. They paid no attention to the prisoner, 
and he watched them mechanically as they went round the room, 
‘ running their eyes up and down the panelling, and tapping here 
and there. 

“The room has been searched, sir, already,” said the young 
constable to the ruddy-faced man, who glanced at him and 
nodded, and then continued the scrutiny. They reached the fire- 
place and the officer reached up and tapped the wood over the 
mantelpiece half-a-dozen times. 

“Here,” he called, pointing to a spot. 

A pikeman came up, placed the end of his pike into the oak, 
and leaned suddenly and heavily upon it: the steel crashed in an 
inch, and stopped as it met the stonework behind. The officer 
made a motion, the pike was withdrawn, and he stood on tip-toe 
and put his finger into the splintered panel. Then he was satis- 
fied and they passed on, still tapping the walls, and went out of 
the other door, locking it again behind them. 

An hour later there were voices and steps again, and a door 
was unlocked and opened, and Mr. Graves, the Tonbridge magis- 
trate stepped in alone. He was a pale scholarly-looking 
man with large eyes, and a weak mouth only partly covered by his 
beard. 

“You can go,” he said nervously to the constable, “but remain 
outside.”” The young man saluted him and passed out. 

The magistrate looked quickly and sideways at Mr. Buxton as 
he sat and looked at him. 

“T am come to tell you,” he said, “that we cannot find the 
priest.” He hesitated and stopped. “We have found several 
hiding-holes,”’ he went on, “and they are all empty. I—lI hope 
there is no mistake.” 

A little thrill ran through the man who sat in the chair; the 
lethargy began to clear from his brain, like a morning mist when 
a breeze rises; he sat a little more upright and gripped the arms 
of his chair; he said nothing yet, but he felt power and resource 
flowing back to his brain, and the pulse in his temples quieted. 
Why, if the lad had not been taken yet, he must surely be out 
of the house. 


454 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“JT trust there is no mistake,” said the magistrate again 
nervously. 

“You may well trust so,” said the other; ‘‘it will be a grievous 
thing for you, sir, otherwise.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Buxton, I think you know I am no bigot. I was 
sent for by Mr. Lackington last night. I could not refuse. It 
was not my wish 

“Yet you have issued your warrant, and are here in person to 
execute it. May I inquire how many of my cupboards you have 
broken into? And I hope your men are satisfied with my plate.” 

“Indeed, sir,” said the magistrate, ‘‘there has been nothing of 
that kind. And as for the cupboards, there were but three 

Three!—then the lad is out of the house, thought the other. 
But where? 

‘“‘And I trust you have not spared to break down my servants’ 
rooms, and the stables as well as pierce all my panelling.” 

“There was no need to search the stables, Mr. Buxton; our 
men were round the house before we entered. They have been 
watching the entrances since eight o’clock last night.” 

Mr. Buxton felt bewildered. His instinct had been right, then, 
the night before. 

“The party was followed from near Wrotham,” went on the 
magistrate. ‘““The priest was with them then; and, we suppose, 
entered the house.” 

“You suppose!” snapped the other. “What the devil do you 
mean by supposing? You have looked everywhere and cannot 
find him?” 

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as he 
stood and stared at the angry man. 

‘“‘And the roofs?” added Mr. Buxton sneeringly. 

“They have been thoroughly searched.” 

Then there is but one possible theory, he reflected. The lad 
is in the garden-house. And what if they search that? 

“Then may I ask what you propose to destroy next, Mr. 
Graves?” 

He saw that this tone was having its effect on the magistrate, 
who was but a half-hearted persecutor, with but feeble convictions 
and will, as he knew of old. 

“JT entreat you not to speak to me like that, sir,” he said. 
“‘T have but done my duty.” 

Then the other rose from his chair, and his eyes were stern 
and bright again and his lips tight. 











= ———— ee - 


THE GARDEN-HOUSE 455 


“Your duty, sir, seems a strange matter, when it leads you 
to break into a friend’s house, assault him and his servants and 
his guests, and destroy his furniture, in search of a supposed 
priest whom you have never even seen. Now, sir, if this matter 
comes to her Grace’s ears, I will not answer for the consequences; 
for you know Mistress Corbet, her lady-in-waiting, is one of my 
guests.—And, speaking of that, where are my guests?” 

“The two ladies, Mr. Buxton, are safe and sound upstairs, I 
assure you.” 

The magistrate’s voice was trembling. 

“Well, sir, I have one condition to offer you. Either you and 
your men withdraw within half an hour from my house and 
grounds, and leave me and my two guests to ourselves, or else I 
lay the whole matter, through Mistress Corbet, before her Grace.’ 
Mr. Buxton beat his hand once on the table as he ended, and 
looked with a contemptuous inquiry at the magistrate. 

But the worm writhed up at the heel. 

“How can you talk like this, sir,’ he burst out, “as if you had 
but two guests?” 

“Two guests? I do not understand you. How should there 
be more?” 

“Then for whom are the four places laid at table?” he an- 
swered indignantly. 

Mr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not 
answer for a moment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand 
over his mouth and beard once or twice; but the thrust had gone 
home, and there was no parry or riposte. He followed it up. 

“Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. We 
know the priest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. 
All that is uncertain is whether he is here now or escaped. We 
have searched thoroughly; we must search again to-morrow; but 
in the meanwhile, while you yourself must be under restraint, 
your guests shall have what liberty they wish; and you yourself 
shall have all reasonable comfort and ease. So—so, if we do not 
find the priest, I trust that you and—and—Mistress Corbet will 
agree to overlook any rashness on my part—and—and let her 
Grace remain in ignorance.” 

Mr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little 
speech. He saw the mistake he had made in taking the high 
line, and his wretched forgetfulness of the fourth place at table. 
He must make terms, though it tasted bitter. 

“Well, Mr. Graves,” he said, “I have no wish to be hard upon 


456 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


you. All I ask is to be out of the house when the search is made, 


and that the ladies shall come and go as they please.” 

The magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout. 

“Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what 
house will you retire?”’ 

Mr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a 
meditative finger and looked at the ceiling. 

“It must not be too far away,” he said slowly, ‘“and—and the 
Rector would scarce like to receive me. Perhaps in—or 
Why not my summer-house?” he added suddenly. 

Mr. Graves’ face was irradiated with smiles. 

“Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. 
And where is the summer-house?” 

“Tt is across the garden,” said the other carelessly. ‘“I wonder 
you have not searched it in your zeal.” 

“Shall I send a man to prepare it?” asked the magistrate 
eagerly. “Will you go there to-night?” 

‘“‘Well, shall we go across there together now? I give you my 
parole,” he added, smiling, and standing up. 

“Indeed,—as you wish. I cannot tell you, sir, how grateful i: 
am. You have made my duty almost a pleasure, sir.’ 

They went out together into the hall, Mr. Buxton carrying the 
key of the garden-house that he had taken from the drawer of 
his table; he glanced ruefully at the wrecked furniture and floor, 
and his eyes twinkled for a moment as they rested on the four 
places at table still undisturbed, and then met the magistrate’s 
sidelong look. The men were still at the doors, resting now on 
chairs or leaning against the wall, with their weapons beside them; 
it was weary work this mounting sentry and losing the hunt, and 
their faces showed it. The two passed out together into the 
garden, and began to walk up the path that led straight across 
the avenue to where the high vanes of the garden-house stood up 
grotesque and towering against the evening sky, above the black 
yew-hedges. 

All the while they went Mr. Buxton was thinking out his plan. 
It was still incoherent; but, at any rate, it was a step gained to 
be able to communicate with Anthony again; and at least the 
poor lad should have some supper. And then he smiled to him- 
self with relief as he saw what an improvement there had been 
in the situation as it had appeared to him an hour ago. Why, 
they would search the house again next day; find no one, and 
retire apologising. His occupancy of the garden-house with the 





) 





THE GARDEN-HOUSE 457 


magistrate’s full consent would surely secure it from search; and 
he was not so well satisfied with the disguised entrance to the 
passage at this end as with that in the cellar. 

They reached the door at last. There were three steps going 
up to it, and Mr. Buxton went up them, making a good deal of 
noise as he did so, to ensure Anthony’s hearing him should he 
be above ground. a hen, as if with great difficulty, he unlocked 
the door, rattling it, and clicking sharply with his tongue at its 
stiffness. 

“You see, Mr. Graves,” he said, rather loud, as he opened 
the door a little, “my prison will not be a narrow one.” He 
threw the door open, gave a glance round, and was satisfied. The 
targets leaned against one wall, and two rows of flower-pots stood 
in the corner near where the window opened into the lane, but 
there was no sign of occupation. Mr. Buxton went across, threw 
the window open and looked out. There was a steel cap three 
or four feet below, and a pike-head; and at the sound of the 
- latch a bearded face looked up. 

“TI see you have a sentry there,” said Mr. Buxton carelessly. 

“Ah! that is one of Mr. Maxwell’s men.” 

“Mr. Maxwell’s!” said the other, startled. ‘Is he in this 
affair too?” 

“Ves; have you not heard? He came from Great Keynes this 
morning. Mr. Lackington sent for him.” 

Mr. Buxton’s face grew dark. 

‘“‘Ah yes, I see—a pretty revenge.” 

The magistrate was on the point of asking an explanation, for 
he felt on the best of terms again now with his prisoner, when 
there were footsteps outside and voices; and there stood four 
constables, with Nichol, Hubert Maxwell and Lackington in 
furious debate coming up the path behind. 

They looked up suddenly, and saw the door open and the 
magistrate and his prisoner standing in the opening. The four 
constables stood waiting for further orders while their three chiefs 
came up. 

“Now, now, now!” said Mr. Graves peevishly, ‘what is all 
this?” 

“‘We have come to search this house, sir,” said Nichol cheerfully. 

“See here, sir,” said Hubert, “have you given orders for this?” 

“Enough, enough,” said Lackington coolly. ‘Search, men.” 

The pursuivants advanced to the steps. Then Mr. Buxton 
turned fiercely on them all. 


458 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“See here!” he cried, and his voice rang out across the garden. 
“You bring me here, Mr. Graves, promising me a little peace and 
quietness, after your violent and unwarranted attack upon my 
house to-day. I have been patient and submissive to all sugges- 
tions; I leave my entire house at your disposal; I promise to lay 
no complaints before her Grace, so long as you will let me retire 
here till it is over—and now your men persecute me even here. 
Have you no mind of your own, sir?” he shouted. 

“Really, sir-———” began Hubert. 

“And as for you, Mr. Maxwell,’ went on the other fiercely, 
“are you not content with your triumph so far? Cannot you 
leave me one corner to myself, or would your revenge be not full 
enough for you, then?” 

‘‘You mistake me, sir,” said Hubert, making a violent effort to 
control himself; ‘I am on your side in this matter.” 

“That is what I am beginning to think,” said Lackington 
insolently. 

“You think!” roared Mr. Buxton; “and who the devil are 
your” 

“See here, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nichol, ‘what is the dispute? 
Here is an empty house, Mr. Buxton tells us; and Mr. Maxwell 


tells us the same. Well, then, let these honest fellows run through - 


the empty house; it will not take ten minutes, and Mr. Buxton 
and his friend can take the air meanwhile. A-God’s name, let us 
not dispute over a trifle.” 

“Then, a-God’s name, let me go to my own house,” bellowed 
Mr. Buxton, “and these gentlemen can have the empty house to 
disport themselves in till doomsday—or till her Grace looks into 
the matter’; and he make a motion to run down the steps, but 
his heart sank. Mr. Graves put out a deprecating hand and 
touched his arm; and Mr. Buxton very readily turned at once 
with a choleric face! 

“No, no, no!” cried the magistrate. ‘‘These gentlemen are here 
on my warrant, and they shall not search the place. Mr. Buxton, 
I entreat you not to be hasty. Come back, sir.” 

Mr. Buxton briskly reascended. 

“Well, then, Mr. Graves, I entreat you to give your orders, 
and let your will be known. I am getting hungry for my supper, 
too, sir. It is already an hour past my time.” 

“Sup in the house, sir,” said Mr. Nichol smoothly, ‘and we 
shall have done by then.” 

Then Hubert blazed up; he took a step forward. 





THE GARDEN-HOUSE 459 


“Now, you fellow,” he said to Nichol, “hold your damned 
tongue. Mr. Graves and I are the magistrates here, and we say 
that this gentleman shall sup and sleep here in peace, so you may 
take your pursuivants elsewhere.” 

Lackington looked up with a smile. 

“No, Mr. Maxwell, I cannot do that. These men are under 
my orders, and I shall leave two of them here and send another 
to keep your fellow company at the back. We will not disturb 
Mr. Buxton further to-night; but to-morrow we shall see.” 

Mr. Buxton paid no sort of further attention to him but turned 
to the magistrates. 

“Well, gentlemen, what is your decision?” 

“You shall sleep here in peace, sir,’’ said Mr. Graves resolutely. 
“T can promise nothing for to-morrow.” 

“Then will you kindly allow one of my men to bring me supper 
and a couch of some kind, and I shall be obliged if the ladies 
may sup with me.” 

“That they shall,” assented Mr. Graves. “Mr. Maxwell, will 
you escort them here?”’ 

Hubert, who was turning away, nodded and disappeared round 
the yew-hedge. lLackington, who had been talking in an under- 
tone to the pursuivants, now went up another alley with one of 
them and Mr. Nichol, and disappeared too in the gathering gloom 
of the garden. The other two pursuivants separated and each 
moved a few steps off and remained just out of sight. Plainly 
they were to remain on guard. Mr. Buxton and the magistrate 
sat down on a couple of garden-chairs. 

“That is an obstinate fellow, sir,” said Mr. Graves. 

“They are certainly both of them very offensive fellows, sir. 
I was astonished at your indulgence towards them.” 

The magistrate was charmed by this view of the case, and re- 
mained talking with Mr. Buxton until footsteps again were heard, 
and the two ladies appeared, with Hubert with them, and a couple ~ 
of men carrying each a tray and the other necessaries he had 
asked for. 

Mr. Buxton and the magistrate rose to meet the ladies and 
bowed. 

“T cannot tell you,” began their host elaborately, “what distress 
all this affair has given me. I trust you will forgive any incon- 
venience you may have suffered.” 

Both Isabel and Mary looked white and strained, but they re- 
sponded gallantly; and as the table was being prepared the four 


460 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


talked almost as if there were no bitter suspense at three of their 
hearts at least. Mr. Graves was nervous and uneasy, but did his 
utmost to propitiate Mary. At last he was on the point of with- 
drawing, when Mr. Buxton entreated him to sup with them. 

“T must not,” he said; ‘I am responsible for your property, 
Mr. Buxton.” 

“Then I understand that these ladies may come and go as they 
please?” he asked carelessly. 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“Then may I ask too the favour that you will place one of 
your own men at the door who can conduct them to the house 
when they wish to go, and who can remain and protect me too 
from any disturbance from either of the two officious persons who 
were here just now?” 

Mr. Graves, delighted at this restored confidence, promised 
to do so, and took an elaborate leave; and the three sat down to 
supper; the door was left open, and they could see through it the 
garden, over which veil after veil of darkness was beginning to 
fall. The servants had lighted two tapers, and the inside of the 
great room with its queer furniture of targets and flower-pots was 
plainly visible to any walking outside. Once or twice the figure 
of a man crossed the strip of light that lay across the gravel. 

It was a strange supper. They said innocent things te one 
another in a tone loud enough for any to hear who cared to be 
listening, about the annoyance of it all, the useless damage that 
had been done, the warmth of the summer night, and the like, 
and spoke in low soundless sentences of what was in all their 
hearts. 

“That red-faced fellow,” said Mary, ‘would be the better of 
some manners. (He is in the passage below, I suppose.)” 

“Tt is scarce an ennobling life—that of a manhunter,” said Mr. 
Buxton. (‘‘Yes, I am sure of it.’’) 

“They have broken your little cupboard, I fear,” said Mary 
again. (“Tell me your plan, if you have one.’’) 

And so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing 
in Mr. Buxton’s mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies 
might sup with him; and little by little he conveyed it to them. 
He managed to write down the outline of it as he sat at table, 
and then passed it to each to read, and commented on it and 
answered their questions about it, all in the same noiseless under- 
tone, with his lips indeed scarcely moving. There were many 
additions and alterations made in it as the two ladies worked 


THE GARDEN-HOUSE 461 


upon it too, but by the time supper was over it was tolerably 
complete. It seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was 
desperate. It was certain that the garden-house would be 
searched next day; Lackington’s suspicions were plainly roused, 
and it was too much to hope that searchers who had found three 
hiding-places in one afternoon would fail to find a fourth. It 
appeared then that it was this plan or none. 

They supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and 
work out the scheme, and to foresee any difficulties beyond those 
they had already counted on; and it was fully half-past nine be- 
fore the two ladies rose. Their host went with them to the door, 
called up Mr. Graves’ man, and watched them pass down the 
path out of sight. He stood a minute or two longer looking 
across towards the house at the dusky shapes in the garden and 
the strip of gravel, grass, and yew that was illuminated from his 
open door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew were just 
out of sight. 

“T am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me.” 
There was no answer; and he closed the two high doors and bolted 
them securely. 

He dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing 
suspicion, so he went to the other window and looked out into 
the lane. He could just make out the glimmer of steel on the 
opposite bank. 

“Good-night, my man,” he called out cheerfully. 

Again there was no answer. There was something sinister in 
these watching presences that would not speak, and his heart 
sank a little as he put-to the window without closing it. He 
went next to the pile of rugs and pillows that his men had brought 
across, and arranged them in the corner, just clear of the trap- 
door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers, and here at 
least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off his doublet 
and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a shirt, trunks 
and hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the 
tapers still burned, and blew them out, leaving the room in com- 
plete darkness. Then he went back to his bed, and sat and 
listened. 

Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one 
pair of eyes had been watching him; for, although the windows 
were of bottle-end glass, yet it was exceedingly likely that there 
would be some clear glass in them; and, with the tapers burning 
inside, his movements would all have been visible to either of 


462 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Lackington’s men who cared to put his eye to the window. But 
now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he slipped on his 
doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his white shirt. 
There was the silence of the summer night about him—the silence 
only emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across 
the garden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse 
stamp. Once there came a little stifled cough from outside his 
window; there was the silky rustie of the faint breeze in the 
trees outside; and now and again came the snoring of a young owl 
in the ivy somewhere overhead. 


He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to 


wait; and meanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the 
scheme. Then he glanced this way and that with wide eyes; his 
ears sang with intentness of listening. Then, very softly he 
shifted his position, and found with his fingers the ring that 
lifted the trap-door above the stairs. 

There was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty 
he lifted the door with his right hand and leaned it against the 
wall; then he looked round again and listened. From below came 
up the damp earthy breath of the basement, and he heard a rat 
scamper suddenly to shelter. Then he lifted his feet from the 
rugs and dropped them noiselessly on the stairs, and supporting 
himself by his hands on the floor went down a step or two. Then 
a stair creaked under his weight; and he stopped in an agony, 
hearing only the mad throbbing in his own ears. But all was 
silent outside. And so step by step he descended into the cool 
darkness. He hesitated as to whether he should close the trap- 
door or not, there was a risk either way; but he decided to do 
so, as he would be obliged to make some noise in opening the 
secret doors and communicating with Anthony. At last his feet 
touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat and counted the 
steps—the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There was no 
answer; he put his lips to it and whispered sharply: 

“Anthony, Anthony, dear lad.” 

Still there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed 
to hold the woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so 
that it descended noiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt 


the boards. Anthony had retired into the passage then, he told — 


himself, as he found the space empty. He climbed into the hole, 
pushed himself along and counted the bricks—the fourth of the 
fourth—pressed it, and pushed at the door; and it was fast. 

For the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had 


THE GARDEN-HOUSE 463 


he forgotten? or was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? 
He turned in his place, put his shoulders against the door and 
his feet against the woodwork of the stairs, and pushed steadily; 
there were one or two loud creaks, and the door began to yield. 
Then he knew Anthony was there; a rush of relief came into his 
heart—and he turned and whispered again. 

“Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I.” 

The brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of 
the pitch darkness of the tunnel. 

“Who is it? Is it you?” came a whisper. 

“Tt is I, yes. Thank God you are here. I feared 2 

“How could I tell?” came the whisper again. “‘But what is the 
news? Are you escaped?” 

“No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for 
that. You must escape—we have a plan—but there is not much 
time.” 

‘‘Why should I not remain here?” 

“They will search to-morrow—and—and this end of the tunnel 
is not so well concealed as the other. They would find you. 
They suspect you are here, and there are guards round this place.” 

There was a movement in the dark. 

“Then why think ” began the whisper. 

“No, no, we have a plan. Mary and Isabel approve. Listen 
carefully. There is but one guard at the back here, in the lane. 
Mary has leave to come and go now as she pleases—they are 
afraid of her; she will leave the house in a few minutes now to 
ride to East Maskells, with two grooms and a maid behind one 
of them. She will ride her own horse. When she has passed the 
inn she will bid the groom who has the maid to wait for her, 
while she rides down the lane with the other, Robert, to speak to 
me through the window. The pursuivant, we suppose, will not 
forbid that, as he knows they have supped with me just now. 
As we talk, Robert will watch his chance and spring on the 
pursuivant. As soon as the struggle begins you will drop from 
the window; it is but eight feet; and help him to secure the man 
and gag him. However much din they make the others cannot 
reach the man in time to help, for they will have to come round 
from the house, and you will have mounted Robert’s horse; and 
you and Mary together will gallop down the lane into the road, 
and then where you will. We advise East Maskells. I do not 
suppose there will be any pursuit. They will have no horses 
ready. Do you understand it?” 








464 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


There was silence a moment; Mr. Buxton could hear Anthony 
breathing in the darkness. 

“IT do not like it,” came the whisper at last; “it seems 
desperate. A hundred things may happen. And what of Isabel 
and you?” 

“Dear friend, I know it is desperate, but not so desperate as 
your remaining here would be for us all.” 

Again there was silence. 

“What of Robert? How will he eineas 

“Tf you escape they will have nothing against Robert; for they 
can prove nothing as to your priesthood. But if they catch you 
here—and they certainly will, if you remain here—they will 
probably hang him, for he fought for you gallantly in the house. 
And he too will have time to run. He can run through the door 
into the meadows. But they will not care for him if they know 
you are off.” 

Again silence. 

“Well?” whispered Mr. Buxton. 

“Do you wish it?” 

“T think it is the only hope.” 

“Then I will do it.” 

“Thank God! And now you must come up with me. Put off 
your shoes.” 

“T have none.” : 

“Then follow, and do not make a sound.” 


Very cautiously Mr. Buxton extricated himself; for he had 
been lying on his side while he whispered to Anthony; and 
presently was crouched on the stairs above, as he heard the stir- 
rings of his friend in the dark below him. There came the click 
of the brickwork door; then slow shufflings; once a thump on 
the hollow boards that made his heart leap; then after what 
seemed an interminable while, came the sound of latching the 
fifth stair into its place; and he felt his foot grasped. Then he 
turned and ascended slowly on hands and knees, feeling now and 
again for the trap-door over him—touched it—raised it, and 
crawled out on to the rugs. The room seemed to him compara- 
tively light after the heavy darkness of the basement, and passage 
below, and he could make out the supper-table and the outline 
of the targets on the opposite wall. Then he saw a head follow 
him; then shoulders and body; and Anthony crept out and sat 
on the rugs beside him. Their hands met in a trembling grip. 


THE GARDEN-HOUSE 465 


“Supper, dear lad?”’ whispered Mr. Buxton, with his mouth to 
the other’s ear. 

“Yes, I am hungry,” came the faintest whisper back. 

Mr. Buxton rose and went on tip-toe to the table, took off some 
food and a glass of wine that he had left purposely filled and 
came back with them. 

There the two friends sat; Mr. Buxton could just hear the 
movement of Anthony’s mouth as he ate. The four windows 
glimmered palely before them, and once or twice the tall doors 
rattled faintly as the breeze stirred them. 

Then suddenly came a sound that made Anthony’s hand pause 
on the way to his mouth; Mr. Buxton drew a sharp breath; it 
was the noise of three or four horses on the road beyond the 
church. Then they both stood up without a word, and Mr. 
Buxton went noiselessly across to the window that looked on to 
the lane and remained there, listening. The horses were now 
passing down the street, and the noise of their hoofs grew fainter 
behind the houses. | 

Anthony saw his friend in the twilight beckon, and he went 
across and stood by him. Suddenly the hoofs sounded loud and 
near; and they heard the pursuivant below stand up from the 
bank opposite. Then Mary’s voice came distinct and cheerful. 

“How dark it is!” 

The horses were coming down the lane. 


CHAPTER XII 
THE NIGHT-RIDE 


THE sound of hoofs came nearer; Anthony’s heart, as he crouched 
below the window, ready to spring up and over when the signal 


was given, beat in sick thumpings at the base of his throat, but — 


with a fierce excitement and no fear. His hands clenched and 
unclenched. Mr. Buxton stood back a little, waiting; he must 
feign to be asleep at first. 

Then came suddenly a sharp challenge from the sentry. 

“It is Mistress Corbet,” came Mary’s cool high tones, “and I 
desire to speak with Mr. Buxton.” 

The man hesitated. 

“You cannot,’ he said. 

“Cannot!” she cried; “why, fellow, do you know who I am? 
And I have just supped with him.” 

There came a sudden sound from the other side of the summer- 
house, and both men in the room knew that the guards in the 
garden were listening. ; 

“T am sorry, madam, but I have no orders.” 

“Then do not presume, you hound,” came Mary’s voice again, 
with a ring of anger. ‘‘Ho, there, Mr. Buxton, come to the 
window.” 

“Be ready,” he whispered to Anthony. 

“Stand back, madam,” said the pursuivant, ‘“‘or I shall call for 
help.” 

Then Mr. Buxton threw back the window. 

“Who is there?” he asked coolly. (‘‘Stand up, Anthony.’ 

“Tt is I, Mr. Buxton, but this insolent dog——” 


“Stand back, madam, I say,” cried the voice of the guard. 


Then from the garden behind came running footsteps and voices; 
and a red light shone through the windows behind. 
‘“‘Now,” whispered the voice over Anthony’s head sharply. 
There came a loud shout from the guard, “Help there, help!” 
Anthony put his hands on to the sill and lifted himself easily. 
The groom had slipped from his horse while Mary held the bridle, 
466 





Oo rt 


THE NIGHT-RIDE 467 


and was advancing at the guard, and there was something in his 
hand. The sentry, who was standing immediately under the win- 
dow, now dropped his pike point forward; and as a furious rattling 
began at the doors on the garden side, Anthony dropped, and 
came down astride of the man’s neck, who crashed to the ground. 
Then the groom was on him too. 

“Leave him to me, sir. Mount.” 

The groom’s hands were busy with something about the 
struggling man’s neck: the shouts choked and ceased. 

“You will strangle the man,” said Anthony sharply. 

“Nonsense,” said Mary; “mount, mount. They are coming.” 

Anthony ran to the horse, that was beginning to scurry and 
plunge; threw himself across the saddle and caught the reins. 

“Upr” said Mary. 

“Up”; and he slung his right leg over the flank and sat up, as 
Mary released the bridle, and dashed off, scattering gravel. 

From the direction of the church came cries and the quick 
rattle of a galloping horse. Anthony dashed his shoeless heels 
into the horse’s sides and leaned forward, and in a moment more 
was flying down the lane after Mary. From in front came a 
shout of warning, with one or two screams, and then Anthony 
turned the corner, checking his horse slightly at the angle, saw 
a torch somewhere to his right, a group of scared faces, a groom 
and woman clinging to him on a plunging horse, and the white 
road; and then found himself with loose reins, and flying 
stirrups, thundering down the village street, with Mary on her 
horse not two lengths in front. The roar of the hoofs behind, and 
of the little shouting crowd, with the screaming woman on the 
horse, died behind him as the wind began to boom in his ears. 
Mary was looking round now, and slightly checking her horse as 
they neared the bottom of the long village street. In half a 
dozen strides Anthony came up on her right. Then the pool 
gleamed before them just beyond the fork of the road. 

“Left!” screamed Mary through the roar of the racing air, 
and turned her horse off up the road that led round in a wide 
sweep of two miles to East Maskells and the woods beyond, and 
Anthony followed. He had settled down in the saddle now, and 
had brought his maddened horse under control; his feet were in 
the stirrups, but there was no lessening of the speed. They had 
left the last house now, and on either side the black bushes and 
heatherland streamed past, with the sudden gleam of water here 
and there under the starlight that showed the ditches and holes 


468 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


with which the ground on either side of the road was honey- 
combed. 

Then Mary turned her head again, and the words came de- 
tached and sharp. 

“They are after us—could not help—horses saddled.” 

Anthony turned his head to release one ear from the roar of 
the air, and heard the thundering rattle of hoofs in the distance, 
but even as he listened it grew fainter. 

“We are gaining!” he shouted. 

Mary nodded, and her teeth gleamed white in a smile. 

“Ours are fresh,” she screamed. 

Then there was silence between them again; they had reached 
a little hill and eased their horses up it; a heavy fringe of trees 
crowned it on their right, black against the stars, and a gleam 
of light showed the presence of a house among them. Farther 
and farther behind them sounded the hoofs; then they were 
swaying and rocking again down the slope that led to the long 
flat piece of road that ended in the slope up to East Maskells. 
It was softer going now and darker too, as there were trees 
overhead; pollared willows streamed past them as they went; 
and twice there was a snort and a hollow thunder of hoofs as 
a young sleeping horse awoke and raced them a few yards in 
the meadows at the side. Once Anthony’s horse shied at a white 
post, and drew in front a yard or two; and he heard for a moment 
under the rattle the cool gush of the stream that flowed beneath 
the road and the scream of a water-fowl as she burst from the 
reeds. 

A great exultation began to fill Anthony’s heart. What a ride 
this was, in the glorious summer night—reckless and intoxicating! 
What a contrast, this sweet night air streaming past him, this 
dear world of living things, his throbbing horse beneath him, the - 
birds and beasts round him, and this gallant girl swaying and re- 
joicing too beside him! What a contrast was all this to that 
terrible afternoon, only a few hours away—of suspense and skulk- 
ing like a rat in a sewer; in a dark, close passage underground 
breathing death and silence round him! An escape with the 
fresh air in the face and the glorious galloping music of hoofs 
is another matter to an escape contrived by holding the breath 
and fearing to move in a mean hiding-hole. And as all this 
flooded in upon him, incoherently but overpoweringly, he turned 
and laughed loud with joy. | 

They had nearly come to an end of the flat by now. In front 


THE NIGHT-RIDE 469 


of them rose the high black mass of trees where safety lay; 
somewhere to the right, not a quarter of a mile in front, just off 
the road, lay East Maskells. They would draw rein, he reflected, 
when they reached the outer gates, and listen; and if all was 
quiet behind them, Mary at least should ask for shelter. For 
himself, perhaps it would be safer to ride on into the woods for 
the present. He began to move his head as he rode to see if there 
were any light in the house before him; it seemed dark; but per- 
haps he could not see the house from here. Gradually his horse 
slackened a little, as the rise in the ground began, and he tossed 
the reins once or twice. 

Then there was a sharp hiss and blow behind him; his horse 
snorted and leapt forward, almost unseating him, and then, still 
snorting with head raised and jerking, dashed at the slope. There 
was a cry and a loud report; he tugged at the reins, but the horse 
was beside himself, and he rode fifty yards before he could stop 
him. Even as he wrenched him into submission another horse 
with head up and flying stirrup and reins thundered past him 
and disappeared into the woods beyond the house. 

Then, trembling so that he could hardly hold the reins, he 
urged his horse back again at a stumbling trot towards what he 
knew lay at the foot of the slope, and to meet the tumult that 
grew in nearness and intensity up the road along which he had 
just galloped. 

There was a dark group on the pale road in front of him, 
twenty yards this side of the field-path that led from Stanfield 
Place; he took his feet from the stirrups as he got near, and in 
a moment more threw his right leg forward over the saddle and 
slipped to the ground. 

He said no word but pushed away the two men, and knelt by 
Mary, taking her head on his knee. The men rose and stood 
looking down at them. 

“Mary,” he said, “can you hear me?” 

He bent close over the white face; her hand rose to her breast, 
and came away dark. She was shot through the body. Then she 
pushed him sharply. 

““Go,”” she whispered, “go.” 

“Mary,” he said again, “make your confession—quickly. 
Stand back, you men.” 

They obeyed him; and he bent his ear towards the mouth he 
could so dimly see. There was a sob or two—a long moaning 
breath—and then the murmur of words, very faint and broken 


470 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


by gulps for breath. He noticed nothing of the hoofs that dashed 
up the road and stopped abruptly, and of the murmur of voices 
that grew round him; he only heard the gasping whisper, the 
words that rose one by one, with pauses and sighs, into his 


“Ts that all?” he said, and a silence fell on all who stood round, 
now a complete circle about the priest and the penitent. The 
pale face moved slightly in assent; he could see the lips were 

ees and the breath was coming short and agonised. 
. In nomine Patris—his hand rose above her and moved 
cross- ways in the air—et Fili et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” 

Then he bent low again and looked; the bosom was still rising 
and falling, the shut eyes lifted once and looked at him. Then 
the lids fell again. 

“Benedictio Dei omntpotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti, 
descendat super te et maneat semper. Amen.” 

Then there fell a silence. A horse blew out its nostrils some- 
where behind and stamped; then a man’s voice cried brutally: 

‘“‘Now then, is that popish mummery done yet?” 

There was a murmur and stir in the group. But Anthony had 
risen. 

“That is all,” he said. 


CHAPTER XIII 
IN PRISON 


ANTHONY found several friends in the Clink prison in Southwark, 
whither he was brought up from Stanfield Place after his arrest. 

Life there was very strange, a combination of suffering and 
extraordinary relaxation. He had a tiny cell, nine feet by five, 
with one little window high up, and for the first month of his 
imprisonment wore irons; at the same time his gaoler was so 
much open to bribery that he always found his door open on 
Sunday morning, and was able to shuffle upstairs and say mass 
in the cell of Ralph Emerson, once the companion of Campion, 
and a lay-brother of the Society of Jesus. There he met a large 
number of Catholics—some of whom he had come across in his 
travels—and he even ministered the sacraments to others who 
managed to come in from the outside. His chief sorrow was that 
his friend and host had been taken to the Counter in Wood 
Street. 

It was a month before he heard all that had happened on the 
night of his arrest, and on the previous days: he had been sep- 
arated at once from his friends; and although he had heard his 
guards talking both in the hall where he had been kept the rest 
of the night, and during the long hot ride to London the next 
day, yet at first he was so bewildered by Mary’s death that what 
they said made little impression on him. But after he had been 
examined both by magistrates and the Commissioners, and very 
little evidence was forthcoming, his irons were struck off and he 
was allowed much more liberty than before; and at last, to his 
great joy, Isabel was admitted to see him. She herself had come 
straight up to the Marretts’ house, both of whom still lived on in 
Wharf Street, though old and infirm; and day by day she at- 
tempted to get access to her brother; until at last, by dint of 
bribery, she was successful. 

Then she told him the whole story. 


‘When we left the garden-house,” she said, “we went straight 
back, and Mary found Mr. Graves in the parlour off the hall. 


471 


472 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


Oh, Anthony, how she ordered him about! And how frightened 
he was of her! The end was that he sent a message to the stables 
for her horses to be got ready, as she said. I went up with her 
to help her to make ready, and we kissed one another up there, 
for, you know, we dared not make as if we said good-bye down- 
stairs. Then we came down for her to mount; and then we saw 
what we had not known before, that all the stable-yard was filled 
with the men’s horses saddled and bridled. However, we said 
nothing, except that Mary asked a man what—what the devil he 
was looking at, when he stared up at her as she stood on the block 
drawing on her gloves before she mounted. ‘There were one or 
two torches burning in Cressets, and I saw her so plainly turn 
the corner down towards the church. 

“Then I went upstairs again, but I could not go to my room, 
but stood at the gallery window outside looking down at the 
court, for I knew that if there was any danger it would come 
from there. 

“Then presently I heard a noise, and a shouting, and a man 
ran in through the gates to the stable-yard; and, almost directly 
it seemed, three or four rode out, at full gallop across the court 
and down by the church. The window was open and I could hear 
the noise down towards the village. Then more and more came 
pouring out, and all turned the corner and galloped; all but one, 
whose horse slipped and came down with a crash. Oh, Anthony! 
how I prayed! ‘ 

“Then I saw Mr. Lackington’’—Isabel stopped a moment at 
the name, and then went on again—‘‘and he was on horseback 
too in the court; but he was shouting to two or three more who 
were just mounting. ‘Across the field—across the field—cut them 
off!’ I could hear it so plainly; and I saw the stable-gate was 
open, and they went through, and I could hear them galloping 
on the grass. And then I knew what was happening; and I went 
back to my room and shut the door.” 

Isabel stopped again; and Anthony took her hand softly in 
his own and stroked it. Then she went on. 

“Well, I saw them bring you back, from the gallery window— 
and ran to the top of the stairs and saw you go through into 
the hall where the magistrates were waiting, and the door was 
shut; and then I went back to my place at the window—and then 
presently they brought in Mary. I reached the bottom of the 
stairs just as they set her down. And I told them to bring her 

upstairs; and they did, and laid her on the bed where we had 


IN PRISON 473. 


sat together all the afternoon. . . . And I would let no one in: 
I did it all myself; and then I set the tapers round her, and put 
the crucifix that was round my neck into her fingers, which I 
had laid on her breast ... and there she lay on the great 
bed .. . and her face was like a child’s, fast asleep—smiling: 
and then I kissed her again, and whispered, ‘Thank you, Mary’; 
for, though I did not know all, I knew enough, and that it was 
for you.” 

Anthony had thrown his arms on the table and his face was 
buried in them. Isabel put out her hand and stroked his curly 
head gently as she went on, and told him in the same quiet 
voice of how Mary had tried to save him by lashing his horse, as 
she caught sight of the man waiting at the entrance of the field- 
path, and riding in between him and Anthony. The man had 
declared in his panic of fear before the magistrates that he had 
never dreamt of doing Mistress Corbet an injury, but that she 
had ridden across just as he drew the trigger to shoot the priest’s 
horse and stop him that way. 

When Isabel had finished Anthony still lay with his head on 
his arms. 

“Why, Anthony, my darling,” she said, ‘““what could be more 
perfect? How proud I am of you both!” 

She told him, too, how they had been tracked to Stanfield— 
Lackington had let it out in his exultation. 

The sailor at Greenhithe was one of his agents—an apostate, 
like his master. He had recognised that the party consisted of 
Catholics by Anthony’s breaking of the bread. He had been 
placed there to watch the ferry; and had sent messages at once 
to Nichol and Lackington. Then the party had been followed, 
but had been lost sight of, thanks to Anthony’s ruse. Nichol 
had then flung out a cordon along the principal roads that 
bounded Stanstead Woods on the south; and Lackington, when 
he arrived a few hours later, had kept them there all night. The 
cordon consisted of idlers and children picked up at Wrotham; 
and the tramp who feigned to be asleep had been one of them. 
When they had passed, he had given the signal to his nearest 
neighbour, and had followed them up. Nichol was soon at the 
place, and after them; and had followed to Stanfield with Lack- 
ington behind. Then watchers had been set round the house; 
the magistrates communicated with; and as soon as Hubert and 
Mr. Graves had arrived the assault had been made. Hubert had 
not been told who the priest was; but he had leapt at an oppor- 


474 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


tunity to harass Mr. Buxton: he had been given to understand 
that Anthony and Isabel were still in the North. 

“He did not know; indeed he did not,” cried Isabel piteously. 

At another time, when she had gained admittance to him, she 
gave him messages from the Marretts, who had kept a great 
affection for the lad, who had told them tales of College that 
Christmas time; and she told him too of the coming of an old 
friend to see her there. 

“Tt was poor Mr. Dent,” she said; “he looks so old now. His 
wife died three years ago; you know he has a city-living and does 
chaplain’s work at the Tower sometimes; and he is coming to see 
you, Anthony, and talk to you.” 

Three or four days later he came. 

Anthony was greatly touched at his kindness in coming. He 
looked considerably older than his age; his hair had grown thin 
and grey about his temples, and the sharp birdlike outline of his 
face and features seemed blurred and indeterminate. His creed 
too, and his whole manner of looking at things of faith, seemed 
to have undergone a similar process. The two had a long talk. 

“f am not going to argue with you, Mr. Norris,” he said, 
“though I still think your religion wrong. But I have learnt this 
at least, that the greatest of all is charity, and if we love the 
same God, and His Blessed Son, and one another, I think that is 
best of all. I have learnt that from my wife—my dear wife,” 
he added softly. ‘I used to hold much with doctrine at one time, 
and loved to chop arguments; but our Saviour did not, and so I 
will not.” 

Anthony was delighted that he took this line, for he knew 
there are some minds that apparently cannot be loyal to both 
charity and truth at the same time, and Mr. Dent’s seemed to 
be one of them; so the two talked of old times at Great Keynes, 
and of the folks there, and at last of Hubert. 

“I saw him in the City last week,” said Mr. Dent, “and he is 
a changed man. He looks ten years older than this time last 
year; I scarcely know what has come to him. I know he has 
thrown up his magistracy, and the Lindfield parson tells me that 
the talk is that Mr. Maxwell is going on another voyage, and 
leaving his wife and children behind him again.” 

Anthony told him gently of Hubert’s share in the events at 
Stanfield, adding what real and earnest attempts he had made 
to repair the injury he had done as soon as he had learnt that it 
was his friend that was in hiding. 


IN PRISON 475 


“There was no treachery against me, Mr. Dent, you see,” he 
added. 

Mr. Dent pecked a little in the air with pursed lips and eyes 
fixed on the ground; and a vision of the pulpit at Great Keynes 
moved before Anthony’s eyes. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said; “I understand—TI quite understand.” 

Before Mr. Dent took his leave he unburdened himself of 
what he had really come to say. 

“Master Anthony,” he said, standing up and fingering his hat 
round and round, “I said I talked no doctrine now; but I must 
unsay that; and—you will not think me impertinent if I ask 
you something?”’ 

“My dear Mr. Dent 
ing too. 

“Thank you, thank you—TI felt sure—then it is this: I do 
not know much about the Popish religion, though I used to once, 
and I may be very mistaken; but I would like you to satisfy me 
before I go on one point”; and he fixed his anxious peering eyes 
on Anthony’s face. “Can you say, Master Anthony, from a full 
heart, that you fix all your hope and confidence for salvation in 
Christ’s merits alone?”’ 

Anthony smiled frankly in his face. 

“Indeed, in none other,” he said, ‘‘and from a full heart.” 

“Ah well,” and the birdlike face began to beam and twitch, 
“and—and there is nothing of confidence in yourself and your 
works—and—and there is no talk of Holy Mary in the 
matter?” 

Anthony smiled again. He wished to avoid useless con- 
troversy. 

“Briefly,” he said, “my belief is that I am a very great sinner, 
that I deserve eternal hell; but I humbly place all my trust in 
the Precious Blood of my Saviour, and in that alone. Does that 
satisfy you?” 

Mr. Dent’s face was breaking into smiles, and at the end he 
took the priest’s face in his hands and kissed him gently twice 
on the cheeks. 

“Then, my dear boy, I fear nothing for you. May that salva- 
tion you hope for be yours.”’ And then without a word he was 
gone. [ 

Anthony’s conscience reproached him a little that he had said 
nothing of the Church to the minister; but Mr. Dent had been so 
peremptory about doctrine that it was hard for the younger man 





” began the other, standing and smil- 


476 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


to say what he would have wished. He told him, however, plainly 
on his next visit that he held whole-heartedly too that the 
Catholic Church was the treasury of Grace that Christ had in- 
stituted, and added a little speech about his longing to see his 
old friend a Catholic too; but Mr. Dent shook his head. The 
corners of his eyes wrinkled a little, and a shade of his old fret- 
fulness passed over his face. 

“Nay, if you talk like that,” he said, “I must be gone. I am 
no theologian. You must let me alone.” 

He gave him news this time of Mr. Buxton. 

“He is in the Counter, as you know,” he said, ‘“‘and is a’ very 
bright and cheerful person, it seems to me. Mistress Isabel 
asked me to see him and give her news of him, for she cannot get 
admittance. He is in a cell, little and nasty; but he said to me 
that a Protestant prison was a Papist’s pleasaunce—in fact he 
said it twice. And he asked very eagerly after you and Mistress 
Isabel. He tried, too, to inveigle me into talk of Peter his pre- 
rogative, but I would not have it. It was Lammas Day when I 
saw him, and he spoke much of it.” 

Anthony asked whether there was anything said of what punish- 
ment Mr. Buxton would suffer. 

“Well,” said Mr. Dent, “the Lieutenant of the Tower told me 
that her Grace was so sad at the death of Mistress Corbet that 
she was determined that no more blood should be shed than was 
obliged over this matter; and that Mr. Buxton, he thought, would 
be but deprived of his estates and banished; but I know not how 
that may be. But we shall soon know.” 

These weeks of waiting were full of consolation and refresh- 
ment to Anthony: the nervous stress of the life of the seminary 
priest in England, full of apprehension and suspense, crowned, as 
it had been in his case, by the fierce excitement of the last days 
of his liberty—all this had strained and distracted his soul, and 
the peace of the prison life, with the certainty that no efforts of 
his own could help him now, quieted and strengthened him for 
the ordeal he foresaw. At this time, too, he used to spend two or 
three hours a day in meditation, and found the greatest benefit 
in following the tranquil method of prayer prescribed by Louis 
de Blois, with whose writings he had made acquaintance at Douai. 
Each morning, too, he said a “dry mass,” and during the whole 
of his imprisonment at the Clink managed to make his confession 
at least once a week, and besides his communion at mass on Sun- 
days, communicated occasionally from the Reserved Sacrament, 


IN PRISON | 477 


which he was able to keep in a neighbouring cell, unknown to 
his gaoler. 

And so the days went by, as orderly as in a Religious House; 
he rose at a fixed hour, observed the greatest exactness in his 
devotions, and did his utmost to prevent any visitors being 
admitted to see him, or any from another cell coming into his own, 
until he had finished his first meditation and said his office. And 
there began to fall upon him a kind of mellow peace that rose at 
times of communion and prayer to a point so ravishing, that he 
began to understand that it would not be a light cross for which 
such preparatory graces were necessary. 


Towards the middle of September he received intelligence that 
evidence had been gathering against him, and that one or two 
were come from Lancashire under guard; and that he would be 
brought before the Commissioners again immediately. 

Within two days this came about. He was sent for across the 
water to the Tower, and after waiting an hour or two with his 
gaoler downstairs in the basement of the White Tower, was taken 
up into the great Hall where the Council sat. There was a table 
at the farther end where they were sitting, and as Anthony looked 
round he saw through openings all round in the inner wall the 
little passage where the sentries walked, and heard their footfalls. 

The preliminaries of identification and the like had been dis- 
posed of at previous examinations before Mr. Young—a name full 
of sinister suggestiveness to the Catholics; and so, after he had 
been given a seat at a little distance from the table behind which 
the Commissioners sat, he was questioned minutely as to his 
journey in the North of England. 

“What were you there for, Mr. Norris?” inquired the Secretary 
of the Council. 

“T went to see friends, and to do my business.” 

“Then that resolves itself into two heads: One, Who are your 
friends. Two, What was your business?” 

Now it had been established beyond a doubt at previous exam- 
inations that he was a priest; a student of Douai who had apos- 
tatised had positively identified him; so Anthony answered 
boldly: 

“My friends were Catholics; and my business was the recon- 
ciling of souls to their Creator.” 

“And to the Pope of Rome,” put in Wade. 

“Who is Christ’s Vicar,” continued Anthony. 


478 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“And a pestilent knave,” concluded a fiery-faced man whom 
Anthony did not know. 

But the Commissioners wanted more than that; it was true that 
Anthony was already convicted of high treason in having been 
ordained beyond the seas and in exercising his priestly functions 
in England; but the exacting of the penalty for religion alone was 
apt to raise popular resentment; and it was far preferable in the 
eyes of the authorities to entangle a priest in the political net 
before killing him. So they passed over for the present his 
priestly functions and first demanded a list of all the places 
where he had stayed in the North. 

“You ask what is impossible,” said Anthony, with his eyes 
on the ground and his heart beating sharply, for he knew that 
now peril was near. 

“Well,” said Wade, “Jet us put it another way. We know 
that you were at Speke Hall, Blainscow, and other places. I 
have a list here,” and he tapped the table, “but we want your 
name to it.” 

‘“‘Let me see the paper,” said Anthony. 

“Nay, nay, tell us first.” 

“T cannot sign the paper except I see it,” said Anthony, smiling. 

‘“‘Give it him,” said a voice from the end of the table. 

“Here then,” said Wade unwillingly. 

Anthony got up and took the paper from him, and saw one or 
two places named where he had not been, and saw that it had been 
drawn up at any rate partly on guesswork. 

He put the paper down and went back to his chair and sat 
down. 

“Tt is not true,” he said, looking steadily at the Secretary; “I 
cannot sign it.” 

“Do you deny that you have been to any of these places?” 
inquired Wade indignantly. 

“The paper is not true,” said Anthony again. 

“Well, then, show us what is not true upon it.” 

‘Tvcannot.?? 

‘““We will find means to persuade you,” said the Secretary. 

“Tf God permits,” said Anthony. 

Wade glanced round inquiringly and shrugged his shoulders; 
one or two shook their heads. 

“Well, then, we will turn to another point. There are known 
to have been certain Jesuit priests in Lancashire in November of 
last year—do you deny that, sir?” 


IN PRISON 479 


“You ask too much,” said Anthony, smiling again; “they may 
have been there for aught I know, for I certainly did not see 
them elsewhere at the time you mention.” 

Wade frowned, but the one at the end laughed loud. 

“He has you there, Wade,” he said. : 

“This is foolery,” said the Secretary. ‘Well, these two, Father 
Edward Oldcorne and Father Holtby were in Lancashire in No- 
vember; and you, Mr. Norris, spoke with them then. We wish 
to know where they are now, and you must tell us.” 

“You have yet to prove that I spoke with them,” said Anthony, 
for the trap was too transparent. 

“But we know that.” 

“That may or may not be; but it is for you to prove it.” 

“Nay, for you to tell us.” 

“For you to prove it.” 

Wade lost his temper. 

“Well, then,” he cried, ‘take this paper and see which of us 
is in the right.” 

Anthony rose again, wondering what the paper could be, and 
came towards the table. He saw it bore a name at the end, and 
as he advanced saw that it had an official appearance. Wade stiil 
held it; but Anthony took it in his hand too to steady it, and 
began to read; but as he read a mist rose before his eyes, and 
the paper shook violently. It was a warrant to put him to the 
torture. 

Wade laughed a little. 

“Why, see, Mr. Norris, how you tremble at the warrant; what 
will it be when you % 

But a voice murmured “Shame!” and he stopped and stared. 

Anthony passed his hand over his eyes and went back to his 
chair and sat down; he saw his knees trembling as he sat, and 
hated himself for it; but he cried bravely: 

“The flesh is weak, but, please God, the spirit is willing.” 

“Well, then,” said Wade again, “must we execute this warrant, 
or will you tell us what we would know?” 

“You must do what God permits,” said Anthony. 

Wade sat down, throwing the warrant on the table, and began 
to talk in a low voice to those who sat next him. Anthony fixed 
his eyes on the ground, and did his utmost to keep his thoughts 
steady. 

Now he realised where he was, and what it all meant. The 
lmtle door to the left, behind him, that he had noticed as he came 





480 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


in, was the door of which he had heard other Catholics speak, 
that led down to the great crypt, where so many before him had 
screamed and fainted and called on God, from the rack that stood 
at the foot of the stairs, or from the pillar with the fixed ring 
at its summit, 

He had faced all this in his mind again and again, but it was 
a different thing to have the horror within arm’s length; old 
phrases he had heard of the torture rang in his mind—a boast of 
Norton’s, the rackmaster, who had racked Brian, and which had 
been repeated from mouth to mouth—that he had “‘made Brian 
a foot longer than God made him”; words of James Maxwell’s 
that he had let drop at Douai; the remembrance of his limp; and 
of Campion’s powerlessness to raise his hand when called upon 
to swear—all these things crowded on him now; and there 
seemed to rest on him a crushing swarm of fearful images and 
words. He made a great effort, and closed his eyes, and repeated 
the holy name of Jesus over and over again; but the struggle 
was still fierce when Wade’s voice, harsh and dry, broke in and 
scattered the confusion of mind that bewildered him. 

“Take the prisoner to a cell; he is not to go back to the Clink.” 

Anthony felt a hand on his arm, and the gaoler was looking 
at him with compassion. 

‘“‘Come, sir,” he said. 

Anthony rose feeling heavy and exhausted; but remerabered 
to bow to the Commissioners, one or two of whom returned it. 
Then he followed the gaoler out into the ante-room, who handed 
him over to one of the Tower officials. 

“T must leave you here, sir,’”’ he said; “but keep a good heart; 
it will not be for to-day.” 


When Anthony got to his new cell, which was in the Salt 
Tower, he was bitterly angry and disappointed with himself. 
Why, he had turned white and sick like a child, not at the pain 
of the rack, not even at the sight of it, but at the mere warrant! 
He threw himself on his knees, and bowed down till his head 
beat against the boards. 

“O Lord Jesus,” he prayed, ‘‘give me of Thy Manhood.” 


He found that this prison was more rigorous than the Clink; 
no liberty to leave the cell could possibly be obtained, and no 
furniture was provided. The gaoler, when he had brought up his 
dinner, asked whether he could send any message for him for a 


IN PRISON 481 


bed. Anthony gave Isabel’s address, knowing that the authorities. 
were already aware that she was a Catholic, and indeed she had 
given bail to come up for trial if called upon, and that his infor- 
mation could injure neither her nor the Marretts, who were sound 
Church of England people; and in the afternoon a mattress and 
some clothes arrived for him. 

Anthony noticed at dinner that the knife provided was of a 
very inconvenient shape, having a round blunt point, and being 
sharp only at a lower part of the blade; and when the keeper 
came up with his supper he asked him to bring him another kind. 
The man looked at him with a queer expression. 

“What is the matter?” asked Anthony; “cannot you oblige 
me?” 

The man shook his head. 

“They are the knives that are always given to prisoners under 
warrant for torture.” 

Anthony did not understand him, and looked at him, puzzled. 

“For fear they should do themselves an injury,” added the 
gaoler. 

Then the same shudder ran over his body again. 

“You mean—you mean...” he began. The gaoler nodded, 
still looking at him oddly, and went out; and Anthony sat, with 
his supper untasted, staring before him. 


J 

By a kind of violent reaction he had a long happy dream that 
night. The fierce emotions of that day had swept over his 
imagination and scoured it as with fire, and now the underlying 
peace rose up and flooded it with sweetness. 

He thought he was in the North again, high up on a moor, 
walking with one who was quite familiar to him, but whose per- 
son he could not remember when he woke; he did not even know 
whether it was man or woman. It was a perfect autumn day, he 
thought, like one of those he had spent there last year; the 
heather and the gorse were in flower, and the air was redolent 
from their blossoms; he commented on this to the person at his 
side, who told him it was always so there. Mile after mile the 
moor rose and dipped, and, although Skiddaw was on his right, 
purple and grey, yet to his left there was a long curved horizon 
of sparkling blue sea. It was a cloudless day overhead, and the 
air seemed kindling and fresh round him as it blew across the 
stretches of heather from the western sea. He himself felt full 
of an extraordinary vitality, and the mere movement of his limbs 


482 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


gave him joy as he went swiftly and easily forward over the 
heather. There was the sound of the wind in his ears, and again 
and again there came the gush of water from somewhere out of 
sight—as he had heard it in the church by Skiddaw. There was 
no house or building of any kind within sight, and he felt a great 
relief in these miles of heath and the sense of holiday that they 
gave him. But all the joy round him and in his heart found 
their point for him in the person that went with him; this presence 
was their centre, as a diamond in a gold ring, or as a throned 
figure in a Court circle. All else existed for the sake of this 
person;—the heather blossomed and the gorse incensed the air, 
and the sea sparkled, and the sky was blue, and the air kindled, 
and his own heart warmed and throbbed, for that only. When he 
tried to see who it was, there was nothing to see; the presence 
existed there as a centre in a sphere, immeasurable and indis- 
cernible; sometimes he thought it was Mary, sometimes he 
thought it Henry Buxton, sometimes Isabel—once even he assured 
himself it was Mistress Margaret, and once James Maxwell— 
and with the very act of identification came indecision again. 
This uncertainty waxed into a torment, and yet a sweet torment, 
as of a lover who watches his mistress’ shuttered house; and this 
torment swelled yet higher and deeper until it was so great that 
it had absorbed the whole radiant fragrant circle of the hills 
where he walked; and then came the blinding knowledge that the 
Presence was all these persons so dear to him, and far more; that 
every tenderness and grace that he had loved in them—Mary’s 
gallantry and Isabel’s serene silence and his friend’s fellowship, 
and the rest—floated in the translucent depths of it, stained and 
irradiated by it, as motes in a sunbeam. 
And then he woke, and it was through tears of pure joy that 
he saw the rafters overhead, and the great barred door, and the 
discoloured wall above his bed. 


When his gaoler brought him dinner that day it was half an 
hour earlier than usual; and when Anthony asked him the reason 
he said that he did not know, but that the orders had run so; 
but that Mr. Norris might take heart; it was not for the torture, 
for Mr. Topcliffe, who superintended it, had told the keeper of 
the rack-house that nothing would be wanted that day. 

He had hardly finished dinner when the gaoler came up again 
and said that the Lieutenant was waiting for him below, and that 
he must bring his hat and cloak. 


IN PRISON 483 


Since his arrest he had worn his priest’s habit every day, so 
he now threw the cloak over his arm and took his hat, and fol- 
lowed the gaoler down. 

In passing through the court he went by a group of men that 
were talking together, and he noticed very especially a tall old 
man with a grey head, in a Court suit with a sword, and very 
Jean about the throat, who looked at him hard as he passed. As 
he reached the archway where the Lieutenant was waiting, he 
turned again and saw the sunken eyes of the old man still looking 
after him; when he turned to the gaoler he saw the same odd 
look in his face that he had noticed before. 

“Why do you look like that?” he asked. “Who is that old 
man?” 

“That is Mr. Topcliffe,” said the keeper. 

The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Richard Barkley, saluted him 
kindly at the gate, and begged him to follow him; the keeper still 
came after and another stepped out and joined them, and the 
group of four together passed out through the Lion’s Tower and 
across the moat to a little doorway where a closed carriage was 
waiting. The Lieutenant and Anthony stepped inside; the two 
keepers mounted outside; and the carriage set off. 

Then the Lieutenant turned to the priest. 

“Do you know where you are going, Mr. Norris?” 

“No, sir.” 

“You are going to Whitehall to see the Queen’s Grace.” 


CHAPTER XIV 
AN OPEN DOOR 


WHEN the carriage reached the palace they were told that the 
Queen was not yet come from Greenwich; and they were shown 
into a little ante-room next the gallery where the interview was 
to take place. The Queen, the Lieutenant told Anthony, was to 
come up that afternoon passing through London, and that she 
had desired to see him on her way through to Nonsuch; he could 
not tell him why he was sent for, though he conjectured it was 
because of Mistress Corbet’s death, and that her Grace wished to 
know the details. | 

“However,” said the Lieutenant, ‘““you now have your oppor- 
tunity to speak for yourself, and I think you a very fortunate 
man, Mr. Norris. Few have had such a privilege, though I 
remember that Mr. Campion had it too, though he made poor 
use of it.” 

Anthony said nothing. His mind was throbbing with memories 
and associations. The air of state and luxury in the corridors 
through which he had just come, the discreet guarded doors, 
the servants in the royal liveries standing here and there, the 
sense of expectancy that mingled with the solemn hush of the 
palace—all served to bring up the figure of Mary Corbet, whom 
he had seen so often in these circumstances; and the thought 
of her made the peril in which he stood and the hope of escape 
from it seem very secondary matters. He walked to the window 
presently and looked out upon the little court below, one of the 
innumerable yards of that vast palace, and stood staring down 
on the hound that was chained there near one of the entrances, 
and that yawned and blinked in the autumn sunshine. 

Even as he looked the dog paused in the middle of his stretch 
and stood expectant with his ears cocked, a servant dashed bare- 
headed down a couple of steps and out through the low archway; 
and simultaneously Anthony heard once more the sweet shrill 
trumpets that told of the Queen’s approach; then there came the 
roll of drums and the thunder of horses’ feet and the noise of 


484 


AN OPEN DOOR 485 


wheels; the trumpets sang out again nearer, and the rumbling 
waxed louder as the Queen’s cavalcade, out of sight, passed the 
entrance of the archway down upon which Anthony looked; and 
then stilled, and the palace itself began to hum and stir; a door 
or two banged in the distance, feet ran past the door of the ante- 
room, and the strain of the trumpets sounded once in the house 
itself. Then all grew quiet once more, and Anthony turned from 
the window and sat down again by the Lieutenant. 

There was silence for a few minutes. The Lieutenant stroked 
his beard gently and said a word’ or two under his breath now 
and again to Anthony; once or twice there came the swift rustle 
of a dress outside as a lady hurried past; then the sound of a door 
opening and shutting; then more silence; then the sound of low 
talking, and at last the sound of footsteps going slowly up and 
down the gallery which adjoined the ante-room. 

Still the minutes passed, but no summons came. Anthony rose 
and went to the window again, for, in spite of himself, this waiting 
told upon him. The dog had gone back to his kennel and was 
lying with his nose just outside the opening. Anthony wondered 
vacantly to himself what door it was that he was guarding, and 
who lived in the rooms that looked out beside it. Then suddenly 
the door from the gallery opened and a page appeared. 

“The Queen’s Grace will see Mr. Norris alone.” 

Anthony went towards him, and the page opened the door 
wide for him to go through, and then closed it noiselessly behind 
him, and Anthony was in the presence. 


It was with a sudden bewilderment that he recognised he was 
in the same gallery as that in which he had talked and sat with 
Mary Corbet. There were the long tapestries hanging opposite 
him, with the tall three windows dividing them, and the suits of 
steel armour that he remembered. He even recalled the pattern 
of the carpet across which Mary Corbet had come forward to 
meet him, and that still lay before the tall window at the end 
that looked on to the Tilt-yard. The sun was passing round to 
the west now, and shone again across the golden haze of the 
yard through this great window, with the fragments of stained 
glass at the top. The memory leapt into life even as he stepped 
out and stood for a moment, dazed in the sunshine, at the door 
that opened from the ante-room. 

But the figure that turned from the window and faced him was 
not like Mary’s. It was the figure of an old woman, who looked 


486 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


tall with her towering head-dress and nodding plume; she was 
dressed in a great dark red mantle thrown back on her shoulders, 
and beneath it was a pale yellow dress sown all over with queer 
devices; on the puffed sleeve of the arm that held the stick was 
embroidered a great curling snake that shone with gold thread 
and jewels in the sunlight, and powdered over the skirt were 
representations of human eyes and other devices, embroidered 
with dark thread that showed up plainly on the pale ground. 
So much he saw down one side of the figure on which the light 
shone; the rest was to his dazzled eyes in dark shadow. He went 
down on his knees at once before this tremendous figure, seeing 
the buckled feet that twinkled below the skirt cut short in front, 
and remained there. 

There was complete silence for a moment, while he felt the 
Queen looking at him, and then the voice he remembered, only 
older and harsher, now said: 

“What is all this, Mr. Norris?” 

Anthony looked for a moment and saw the Queen’s eyes fixed 
on him; but he said nothing, and looked down again. 

“Stand up,” said the Queen, not unkindly, “and walk with 
men, 

Anthony stood up at once, and heard the stiff rustle of her 
dress and the tap of her heels and stick on the polished boards 
as she came towards him. Then he turned with her down the long 
gallery. 

Until this moment, ever since he had heard that he was to see 
the Queen, he had felt nervous and miserable; but now this had 
left him, and he felt at his ease. To be received in this way, 
in privacy, and to accompany her up and down the gallery as she 
took her afternoon exercise was less embarrassing than the formal 
interview he had expected. The two walked the whole length of 
the gallery without a word, and it was not until they turned and 
faced the end that looked on to the Tilt-yard that the Queen 
spoke; and her voice was almost tender. 

“T understand that you were with Minnie Corbet when she 
died,” she said. 

“She died for me, your Grace,” said Anthony. 

The Queen looked at him sharply. 

“Tell me the tale,” she said. 

And Anthony told her the whole story of the escape and the 
ride; speaking too for his friend, Mr. Buxton, and of Mary’s 
affection for him. 


AN OPEN DOOR 487 


“Your Grace,” he ended, “it sounds a poor tale of a man that 
a woman should die for him so; but I can say with truth that 
with God’s grace I would have died a hundred deaths to save 
her.” 

The Queen was silent for a good while when the story was 
over, and Anthony thought that perhaps she could not speak; 
but he dared not look at her. 

Then she spoke very harshly: 

“And you, Mr. Norris, why did you not escape?”’ 

“Your Grace would not have done so.” 

“When I saw that she was dying, I would.” 

“Not if you had been a priest, your Grace.” 

‘What is that?’ asked the Queen, suddenly facing him. 

“TI am a priest, madam, and she was a Catholic, and my duty 
was beside her.” 

“Bh” 

“T shrived her, your Grace, before she died.” 

“Why! they did not tell me that.” 

Anthony was silent. 

They walked on a few steps, and the Queen stood silent too, 
looking down upon the Tilt-yard. Then she turned abruptly, and 
Anthony turned with her, and they began to go up and down 
again. 

“Tt was gallant of you both,” she said shortly. “TI love that my 
people should be of that sort.” Then she paused. “Tell me,” 
she went on, “did Mary love me?” 

Anthony was silent for a moment. 

“The truth, Mr. Norris,” she said. 

“Mistress Corbet was loyalty itself,” he answered. 

“Nay, nay, nay, not loyalty but love I asked you of. How 
did she speak of me?” 

“Well, your Grace, Mistress Corbet had a shrewd wit, and she 
used it freely on friend and foe, but her very sharpness on your 
Grace, sometimes, showed her love; for she hated to think you 
otherwise than what she deemed the best.” 

The Queen stopped full in her walk. 

“That is very pleasantly put,” she said; “I told Minnie you 
were a courtier.” 

Again the two walked on. 

“Then she used her tongue on me?” 

“Your Grace, I have never met one on whom she did not: but 
her heart was true.” 


488 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


“T know that, I know that, Mr. Norris. Tell me something 
she said.” 

Anthony racked his brains for something not too severe. 

“Mistress Corbet once said that the Queen’s most disobedient 
subject was herself.” 

“Khe” said Elizabeth, stopping in her walk. 

“ ‘Because,’ said Mistress Corbet, ‘she can never command her- 
self,’ ”’ finished Anthony. 

The Queen looked at Anthony, puzzled a moment; and then 
chuckled loudly in her throat. 

“The impertinent minx!” she said, “that was when I had 
clouted her, no doubt.” 

Again they walked up and down in silence a little while. 
Anthony began to wonder whether this was all for which the 
Queen had sent for him. He was astonished at his own self- 
possession; all the trembling awe with which he had faced the 
Queen at Greenwich was gone; he had forgotten for the moment 
even his. own peril; and he felt instead even something of pity 
for this passionate old woman, who had aged so quickly, whose 
favourites one by one were dropping off, or at the best giving 
her only an exaggerated and ridiculous devotion, at the absurdity 
of which all the world laughed. Here was this old creature at 
his side, surrounded by flatterers and adventurers, advancing 
through the world in splendid and jewelled raiment, with trum- 
pets blowing before her, and poets singing her praises, and crowds 
applauding in the streets, and sneering in their own houses at 
the withered old virgin-Queen who still thought herself a Diana— 
and all the while this triumphal progress was at the expense of 
God’s Church, her car rolled over the bodies of His servants, and 
her shrunken, gemmed fingers were red in their blood;—so she 
advanced, thought Anthony, day by day towards the black truth 
and the eternal loneliness of the darkness that lies outside the 
realm where Christ only is King. 

Elizabeth broke in suddenly on his thoughts. 

““Now,” she said, “and what of you, Mr. Norris?” 

“TY am your Grace’s servant,” he said. 

“IT am not so sure of that,” said Elizabeth. “If you are my 
servant, why are you a priest, contrary to my laws?” 

“Because I am Christ’s servant too, your Grace.” 

“But Christ’s apostle said, ‘Obey them that have the rule over 
you.’ ) 

“In indifferent matters, madam.” 


AN OPEN DOOR 489 


The Queen frowned and made a little angry sound. 

“T cannot understand you Papists,” said the Queen. “What 
a-God’s name do you want? You have liberty of thought and 
faith; I desire to inquire into no man’s private opinions. You 
may worship Ashtaroth if it please you, in your own hearts; 
and God looks to the heart, and not to the outer man. There is 
a Church with bishops like your own, and ministers; there are 
the old churches to worship in—nay, you may find the old orna- 
ments still in use. We have sacraments as you have; you may 
seek shrift if you will; nay, in some manner we have the mass— 
though we do not call it so—but we follow Christ’s ordinance 
in the matter, and you can do no more. We have the Word of 
God as you have, and we use the same creeds. What more can 
the rankest Papist ask? Tell me that, Mr. Norris; for I am 
a-weary of your folk.” 

The Queen turned and faced him again a moment, and her 
eyes were peevish and resentful. 

Presently she went on again. 

“Mr. Campion told me it was the oath that troubled him. He 
could not take it, he said. I told the fool that I was not Head 
of the Church as Christ was, but only the supreme governor, as 
the Act declares, in all spiritual and ecclesiastical things:—I for- 
get how it runs,—but I showed it him, and asked him whether 
it were not true; and I asked him too how it was that Margaret 
Roper could take the oath, and so many thousands of persons as 
full Christian as himself—and he could not answer me.” 

The Queen was silent again. Then once more she went on 
indignantly: 

“Tt is yourselves that have brought all this trouble on your 
heads. See what the Papists have done against me; they have 
excommunicated me, deposed me—though in spite of it I still 
sit on the throne; they have sent an Armada against me; they 
have plotted against me, I know not how many times; and then, 
when I defend myself and hang a few of the wolves, lo! they 
are Christ’s flock at once for whom he shed His precious blood, 
and His persecuted lambs, and I am Jezebel straightway and 
Athaliah and Beelzebub’s wife—and I know not what.” 

The Queen stopped, out of breath, and looked fiercely at 
Anthony, who said nothing. 

“Tell me how you answer that, Mr. Norris?” said the Queen. 

“T dare not deal with such great matters,” said Anthony, ‘‘for 
your Grace knows well that I am but a poor priest that knows 


490 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


nought of state-craft; but I would like to ask your Highness two 
questions only. The first is: whether your Grace had aught to 
complain of in the conduct of your Catholic subjects when the 
Armada was here; and the second, whether there hath been one 
actual attempt upon your Grace’s life by private persons?” 

“That is not to the purpose,” said the Queen peevishly. “It 
was Catholics who fought against me in the Armada, and it was 
Catholics who plotted against me at Court.” 

“Then there is a difference in Catholics, your Grace,” said 
Anthony. 

“Ah! I see what you would be at.” 

“Yes, your Highness; I would rather say, Although they be 
Catholics they do these things.” 

There was silence again, which Anthony did not dare to break; 
and the two walked up the whole length of the gallery without 
speaking. 

“Well, well,” said Elizabeth at last, “but this was not why I 
sent for you. We will speak of yourself now, Mr. Norris. I 
hope you are not an obstinate fellow. Eh?” 

Anthony said nothing, and the Queen went on. 

“Now, as I have told you, I judge no man’s private opinions. 
You may believe what you will. Remember that. You may 
believe what you will; nay, you may practise your religion so 
long as it is private and unknown to me.” 

Anthony began to wonder what was coming; but he still said 
nothing as the Queen paused. She stood a moment looking 
down into the empty Tilt-yard again, and then turned and sat 
suddenly in a chair that stood beside the window, and put up a 
jewelled hand to shield her face, with her elbow on the arm, while 
Anthony stood before her. 

“TI remember you, Mr. Norris, very well at Greenwich; you 
spoke up sharply enough, and you looked me in the eyes now 
and then as I like a man to do; and then Minnie loved you, 
too. I wish to show you kindness for her sake.” 

Anthony’s heart began to fail him, for he guessed now what 
was coming and the bitter struggle that lay before him. 

“Now, I know well that the Commissioners have had you 
before them; they are tiresome busybodies. Walsingham started 
all that and set them a-spying and a-defending of my person and 
the rest of it; but they are loyal folk, and I suppose they asked 
you where you had been and with whom you had stayed, and 
so on?” 


AN OPEN DOOR 491 


“They did, your Grace.” 

‘And you would not tell them, I suppose?” 

“T could not, madam; it would have been against justice and 
charity to do so.” 

“Well, well, there is no need now, for I mean to take you out 
of their hands.” 

A great leap of hope made itself felt in Anthony’s heart; he 
did not know how heavy the apprehension lay on him till this 
light shone through. 

“They will be wrath with me, I know, and will tell me that 
they cannot defend me if I will not help them; but, when all is 
said, I am Queen. Now I do not ask you to be a minister of my 
Church, for that, I think, you would never be; but I think you 
would like to be near me—is it not so? And I wish you 
to have some post about the Court; I must see what it is to 
be:” 

Anthony’s heart began to sink again as he watched the Queen’s 
face as she sat tapping a foot softly and looking on the floor as 
she talked. Those lines of self-will about the eyes and mouth 
surely meant something. 

Then she looked up, still with her cheek on her right hand. 

“You do not thank me, Mr. Norris.” 

Anthony made a great effort; but he heard his own voice 
quiver a little. 

“YT thank your Grace for your kindly intentions toward me, 
with all my heart.” 

The Queen seemed satisfied, and looked down again. 

‘“‘As to the oath, I will not ask you to take it formally, if you 
will give me an assurance of your loyalty.” 

“That, your Grace, I give most gladly.” 

His heart was beating again in great irregular thumps in his 
throat; he had the sensation of swaying to and fro on the edge 
of a precipice, now towards safety and now towards death; it 
was the cruellest pain he had suffered yet. But how was it pos- 
sible to have some post at Court without relinquishing the exer- 
cise of his priesthood? He must think it out; what did the 
Queen mean? 

“And, of course, you will not be able to say mass again; but 
I shall not hinder your hearing it at the Ambassador’s whenever 
you please.” 

Ah! it had come; his heart gave a leap and seemed to cease. 

“Your Grace must forgive me, but I cannot consent.” 


492 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


There was a dead silence; when Anthony looked up, she was 
staring at him with the frankest astonishment. 

“Did you think, Mr. Norris, you could be at Court and say 
mass too whenever you wished?” Her voice rang harsh and 
shrill; her anger was rising. 

“T was not sure what your Grace intended for me.” 

“The fellow is mad,” she said, still staring at him. “Oh! 
take care, take care!” 

“Your Grace knows I intend no insolence.”’ 

“You mean to say, Mr. Norris, that you will not take a pardon 
and a post at Court on those terms?” 

Anthony bowed; he could not trust himself to speak, so bitter 
was the reaction. 

“But, see man, you fool; if you die as a traitor you will never 
say mass again either.” 

“But that will not be with my consent, your Grace.” 

“And you refuse the pardon?” 

“On those terms, your Grace, I must.” 

“Well ” and she was silent a moment, “‘you are a fool, sir.” 

Anthony bowed again. 

“But I like courage—Well, then, you will not be my ser- 
vant?” 

“T have ever been that, your Grace; and ever will be.” 

“Well, well—but not at Court?” 

“Ah! your Grace knows I cannot,” cried Anthony, and his 
voice rang sorrowfully. 

Again there was silence. 

“You must have your way, sir, for poor Minnie’s sake; but it 
passes my understanding what you mean by it. And let me tell 
you that not many have their way with me, rather than mine.” 

Again hope leapt up in his heart. The Queen then was not 
sO ungracious. 

He looked up and smiled—and down again. 

“Why, the man’s lips are all a-quiver. What ails him?” 

“Tt is your Grace’s kindness.” 

“J must say I marvel at it myself,” observed Elizabeth. ‘You 
near angered me just now; take care you do not so quite.” 

“YT would not willingly, as your Grace knows.” 

“Then we will end this matter. You give me your assurance 
of loyalty to my person.” 

“With all my heart, madam,” said Anthony eagerly. 

“Then you must get to France within the week. The other 





AN OPEN DOOR 493 


too—Buxton—he loses his estate, but has his life. I am doing 
much for Minnie’s sake.” 

“How can I thank your Grace?” 

“And I will cause Sir Richard to give it out that you have 
taken the oath. Call him in.” 

There was a quick gasp from the priest; and then he cried 
with agony in his voice: 

“Y cannot, your Grace, I cannot.” 

“Cannot call Sir Richard! Why, you are mad, sir!” 

“Cannot consent; I have taken no oath.” 

“T know you have not. I do not ask it.” 

Elizabeth’s voice came short and harsh; her patience was van- 
ishing, and Anthony knew it and looked at her. She had dropped 
her hand, and it was clenching and unclenching on her knee. 
Her stick slipped on the polished boards and fell; but she paid 
it no attention. She was looking straight at the priest; her high 
eyebrows were coming down; her mouth was beginning to 
mumble a little; he could see in the clear sunlight that fell on 
her sideways through the tall window a thousand little wrinkles, 
and all seemed alive; the lines at the corners of her eyes and 
mouth deepened as he watched. 

“What a-Christ’s name do you want, sir?” 

It was like the first mutter of a storm on the horizon; but 
Anthony knew it must break. He did not answer. 

“Tell me, sir; what is it now?” 

Anthony drew a long breath and braced his will, but even as 
he spoke he knew he was pronouncing his own sentence. 

“T cannot consent to leave the country and let it be given out 
that I had taken the oath, your Grace. It would be an apostasy 
from my faith.” 

Elizabeth sprang to her feet without her stick, took one step 
forward, and gave Anthony a fierce blow on the cheek with her 
ringed hand. He recoiled a step at the shock of it, and stood 
waiting with his eyes on the ground. Then the Queen’s anger 
poured out in words. Her eyes burned with passion out of an 
ivory-coloured face, and her voice rang high and harsh, and her 
hands continually clenched and unclenched as she screamed at 
him. 

“God’s Body! you are the ungratefullest hound that ever drew 
breath. I send for you to my presence, and talk and walk with 
you like a friend. I offer you a pardon and you fling it in my 
face. I offer you a post at Court and you mock it; you flaunt 


494 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


you in your treasonable livery in my very face, and laugh at my 
clemency. You think I am no Queen, but a weak woman whom 
you can turn and rule at your will. God’s Son! I will show you 
which is sovereign. Call Sir Richard in, sir; I will have him in 
this instant. Sir Richard, Sir Richard!” she screamed, stamping 
with fury. 

The door into the ante-room behind opened, and Sir Richard 
Barkley appeared, with a face full of apprehension. He knelt 
at once. 

“Stand up, Sir Richard,” she cried, “and look at this man. 
You know him, do you not? and I know him now, the insolent 
dog! But his own mother shall not in a week. Look at him 
shaking there, the knave; he will shake more before I have done 
with him. Take him back with you, Sir Richard, and let them 
have their will of him. His damned pride and insolence shall be 
broken. ‘S’Body, I have never been so treated! Take him out, 
Sir Richard, take him out, I tell you!” | 


CHAPTER XV 
THE ROLLING OF THE STONE 


It was a week later, and a little before dawn, that Isabel was 
kneeling by Anthony’s bed in his room in the Tower. The Lieu- 
tenant had sent for her to his lodging the evening before, and 
she had spent the whole night with her brother. He had been 
racked four times in one week, and was dying 


The city and the prison were very quiet now; the carts had 
not yet begun to roll over the cobble-stones and the last night- 
wanderers had gone home. He lay, on the mattress that she had 
sent in to him, in the corner of his cell under the window, on his 
back and very still, covered from chin to feet with her own fur- 
lined cloak that she had thrown over him; his head was on a 
low pillow, for he could not bear to lie high; his feet made a 
little mound under the coverlet, and his arms lay straight at his 
side; but all that could be seen of him was his face, pinched and 
white now with hollows in his cheeks and dark patches and lines 
beneath his closed eyes, and his soft pointed brown beard that 
just rested on the fur edging of Isabel’s cloak; his lips were drawn 
tight, but slightly parted, showing the rim of his white teeth, as 
if he snarled with pain. 

The only furniture in the room was a single table and chair; 
the table was drawn up not far from the bed, and a book or two, 
with a flask of cordial and some fragments of food on a plate lay 
upon it; his cloak and doublet and ruff lay across the chair and 
his shoes below it, and a little linen lay in a pile in another 
corner; but the clothes in which he had been tortured the eve- 
ning before, his shirt and hose, could not be taken off him and 
he lay in them still. They had been so soaked with sweat, that 
Isabel had found him shivering, and laid her cloak over him, and 
now he lay quiet and warm. 

Earlier in the night she had been reading to him, and a taper 
still burned in a candlestick on the table; but for the last two 


495 


496 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


hours he had lain either in a sleep or a swoon, and she had laid 
the book down and was watching him. 

He was so motionless that he would have seemed dead except 
for the steady rise and fall of a fold in the mantle, and for a 
sudden muscular twitch every few minutes. Isabel herself was 
scarcely less motionless; her face was clear and pale as it always 
was, but perfectly serene, and even her lips did not quiver. She 
was kneeling and leaning back now, and her hands were clasped 
in her lap. There was a proud content in her face; her dear 
brother had not uttered one name on the rack except those of the 
Saviour and of the Blessed Mother. So the Lieutenant had told 
her. 

Suddenly his eyes opened and there was nothing but peace in 
them; and his lips moved. Isabel leaned forward on her hands 
and bent her ear to his mouth till his breath was warm on it, and 
she could hear the whisper. . . . 

Then she opened the book that lay face down on the table and 
began to read on, from the point at which she had laid it down 
two hours before. 

“< ‘Frat autem hora tertia: et crucifixerunt eum’ ‘And it was 
the third hour and they crucified him. . . . And with him they 
crucified two thieves, the one on his right hand, and the other on 
his left. And the scripture was fulfilled which saith, And he was 
numbered with the transgressors.’ ” 

Her voice was slow and steady as she read the unfamiliar 
Latin, still kneeling, with the book a little raised to catch the 
candlelight, and her grave tranquil eyes bent upon it. Only once 
did her voice falter, and then she commanded it again imme- 
diately; and that, as she read “ ‘Evant autem et mulieres de longe 
aspicientes.’ “Yhere were also women looking on afar off.’ ” 

And so the tale crept on, minute by minute, and the priest lay 
with closed eyes to hear it; until the mocking was complete, and 
the darkness of the sixth hour had come and gone, and the Saviour 
had cried aloud on His Father, and given up the ghost; and the 
centurion that stood by had borne witness. And the great Crim- 
inal slept in the garden, in the sepulchre “wherein was never 
man yet laid.” 

There was a listening silence as the voice ceased without an- 
other falter. Isabel laid the book down and looked at him again; 
and his eyes opened languidly. 

He had not yet said more than single words, and even now his 
voice was so faint that she had to put her ear close to his mouth. 


Po eS a, 


THE ROLLING OF THE STONE 497 


It seemed to her that his soul had gone into some inner secret 
chamber of profound peace, so deep that it was a long and diffi- 
cult task to send a thought to the surface through his lips. 

She could just hear him, and she answered clearly and slowly 
as to a dazed child, pausing between every word. 

“T cannot get a priest; it is not allowed.” 

Still his eyes bent on her; what was it he said? what was 
fen cee 

Then she heard, and began to repeat short acts of contrition 
clearly and distinctly, pausing between the phrases, in English, 
and his eyes closed as she began: 

“QO my Jesus—I am heartily sorry—that I have—crucified 
thee—by my sins— Wash my soul—in Thy Precious Blood. 
O my God—I am sorry—that I have—displeased Thee—because 
thou are All-good. I hate all the sins—that I have done—against 
Thy Divine Majesty.” 

And so phrase after phrase she went on, giving him time to 
hear and to make an inner assent of the will; and repeating also 
other short vocal prayers that she knew by heart. And so the 
delicate skein of prayer rose from the altar where this morning 
sacrifice lay before God, waiting the consummation of His accept- 
ance. 

Presently she ended, and he lay again with closed eyes and 
mute face. Then again they opened, and she bent down to 
listen?’ % | 

“Tt will all be well with me,” she answered, raising her head 
again. ‘Mistress Margaret has written from Brussels. I shall go 
there for a while. . . . Yes, Mr. Buxton will take me; next week: 
he goes to Normandy, to his estate.” 

Again his lips moved and she listened. . . . 

A faint flush came over her face. She shook her head. 

“T do not know; I think not. I hope to enter Religion. ... 
No, I have not yet determined... . The Dower Houser... 
Yes, I will sell it. . . . Yes, to Hubert, if he wishes it.” 

Every word he whispered was such an effort that she had to 
pause again and again before he could make her understand; and 
often she judged more by the movement of his lips than by any 
sound that came from him. Now and then too she lifted her 
handkerchief, soaked in a strong violet scent, and passed it over 
his forehead and lips. She motioned with the flask of cordial 
once or twice, but his eyes closed for a negative. 

As she knelt and watched him, her thoughts circled continually 


498 BY WHAT AUTHORITY 


in little flights; to the walled garden of the Dower House in 
sunshine, and Anthony running across it in his brown suit, with 
the wallflowers behind him against the old red bricks and ivy, 
and the tall chestnut rising behind; to the wind-swep: hills, with 
the thistles and the golden-rod, ‘and the hazel thickets, and 
Anthony on his pony, sunburnt and voluble, hawk on wrist, with 
a light in his eyes; to the warm panelled hall in winter, with the 
tapers on the round table, and Anthony flat on his face, with his 
feet in the air before the hearth, that glowed and roared up the 
wide chimney behind, and his chin on his hands, and a book open 
before him; or, farther back even still, to Anthony’s little room 
at the top of the house, his clothes on a chair, and the boy him- 
self sitting up in bed with his arms round his knees as she came 
in to wish him good-night and talk to him a minute or two. And 
every time the circling thought came home and settled again on 
the sight of that still straight figure lying on the mattress, against 
the discoloured bricks, with the light of the taper glimmering on 
his thin face and brown hair and beard; and every time her 
heart consented that this was the best of all. 

A bird chirped suddenly from some hole in the Tower, once, 
and then three or four times; she glanced up at the window and 
the light of dawn was beginning. Then, as the minutes went by, 
the city began to stir itself from sleep. There came a hollow 
whine from the Lion-gate fifty yards away; up from the river 
came the shout of a waterman; two or three times a late cock 
crew; and still the light crept on and broadened. But Anthony 
still lay with his eyes closed. 

At last over the cobbles outside a cart rattled, turned a corner 
and was silent. Anthony had opened his eyes now and was look- 
ing at her again; and again She bent down to listen; . . . and 
then opened and read again. 

““Et cum transtsset sabbatum Maria Magdalene et Maria 
Jacobi et Salome emerunt aromata, ut venientes ungerent Jesum? 

‘And when the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene and Mary 
the mother of James and Salome, had bought sweet spices that 
they might come and anoint him.’ ” 

A slight sound made her look up. Anthony’s eyes were kindling 
and his lips moved; she bent again and listened. . . . What was 
ihe SaideyaieG 

Yes, it was so, and she smiled and nodded at him: she was 
reading the Gospel for Easter Day, the Gospel of the first mass 
that they had heard together on that spring morning at Great 


THE ROLLING OF THE STONE 499 


Keynes, when their Lord had led them so far round by separate 
paths to meet one another at His altar. And now they were met 
again here. She read on: 

““Ei valde mane una sabbatorum, veniunt ad monumentum, 
orto jam sole,’ 

“ “Very early they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the 
sun; and they said among themselves, Who shall roll us away 
the stone from the door of the sepulchre? And when they looked, 
they saw that the stone was rolled away, for it was very 
Precatcn': 

“ec. . magnus valde,’ read Isabel; and looked up again;— 
and then closed the book. There was no need to read more. 


She walked across the court half an hour later, just as the sun 
came up; and passed out through the Lieutenant’s lodging, and 
out by the narrow bridge on to the Tower wharf. 

To the left and behind her, as she looked eastwards down the 
river, lay the heavy masses of the prison she had left, and the 
high walls and turrets were gilded with glory. The broad river 
itself was one rolling glory too; the tide was coming in swift and 
strong and a barge or two moved upwards, only half seen in the 
bewildering path of the sun. The air was cool and keen, and a 
breeze from the water stirred Isabel’s hair as she stood looking, 
with the light on her face. It was a cloudless October morning 
overhead. Even as she stood a flock of pigeons streamed across 
from the south side, swift-flying and bathed in light; and her 
eyes followed them a moment or two. 

As she stood there silent, a step came up the wharf from the 
direction of St. Katharine’s street, and a man came walking 
quickly towards her. He did not see who she was until he was 
close, and then he started and took off his hat; it was Lackington 
on his way to some business at the Tower; but she did not seem 
to see him. She turned almost immediately and began to walk 
westwards, and the glory in her eyes was supreme. And as she 
went the day deepened above her. 


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